


Let's Play Doctor

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Angry John, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottoming from the Top, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Caring John, Coming In Pants, Doctor John, Everything off-screen, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, John is a Very Good Doctor, Light D/S overtones, M/M, Mentions of Case involved Rape, Mentions of Serial Rapist, Mentions of kidnapping, Mild Med Kink, Pro Dom John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 20:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when you begin discussing things and then THE THING appears. A lovely gift from your muse. In this case, from the SHJW*Writers Group and Sexxica mulling over book ideas with me. </p><p>This is not the secret thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock looks over the website and chews at his lower lip. On the screen is a deep olive damask background with the words _The Doctor_ in a stylised font. A glossy looking black button with the word _ENTER_ embedded into it was just waiting to be clicked. It’s taunting him. He shakes himself mentally, hovers the cursor over the damnable thing, and clicks. 

The site opens to the same background, but on the left is a picture of a very well toned back, three quarters visible from the angle of the man’s posed torso. His arm, the one visible, is tensed to play up the muscle tone. One hand is resting on the black trouser-clad hip, his chin is pointed down, his eyes also. The shorter cropped dirty-blond hair is silvered as well, but just barely. Sherlock wonders what his eye colour is. The tan looks authentic, even if the play of shading and shadows has been manipulated to bring drama to the composition.

_The Doctor is In_

The words float along the top, then words come from the right side to nestle perfectly beneath the former. _Home. Sessions. Contact. Join_. Four simplistic words that to him mean possibility. Starting at the first one, Sherlock reads through all of the available information, his hands become clammy and his trousers a bit tighter than he is accustomed to. Just that one photo is doing him in. He closes his eyes and wonders what the tanned skin would taste like, the sweat from exertion making it glisten under the indirect light in his bedroom. Decided, Sherlock clicks on the _Contact_ link which led him to an embedded email form.

 

 _Dear Doctor_ ,

_I am well versed in the academic ideals behind what you do, but would like a more practical education. I do believe it would be a good mental exercise.  And, if you believe some, possibly a spiritual one. I am voracious in my studies and eager to begin my tutelage._

_Yours,_  
  
Sherlock Holmes

 __  
  
That written, he sends it without another thought before his nerves got the better of him. Standing, he makes his way over to the kitchen and fills the kettle before he plugs it in and flicks it on. Was it what he wanted? Of course it was what he wanted. Sherlock knew his own mind. He’d heard about The Doctor via back channels and whispers; his skill in all areas, the lack of judgement of his clients. The steady knowing hand. His fingers gripped at the tile of the counter as he imagined those hands against his-

***ping***

The soft chime of his laptop brings him out of the reverie instantly. Curious, he makes his way over, turns it around to face him and promptly sits on the floor.  

 

_TheDoctor_

Hello, Sherlock. Glad to see that you are still on. Doing your research.

 

_SH_

Doctor? Evening. And, yes, I am. I am surprised that you are not busy with a client. Must be between, then.

 

_TheDoctor_

Why ever would you say that?  
  
 _SH_

Chat client, no email yet, so you were browsing between set ups, or possibly you’re in a cab in between. You were curious, so tried the direct route first.

 

_TheDoctor_

Well, I will admit that the phrasing had me - Are you stating that you have zero practical experience in this specific arena? Or sex in general? I would like to know, as that raises questions on my end. Nothing untoward, I promise you. I am terribly discrete. It’s just not often seen.  
  
 _SH_

If you are asking if I am a virgin, that would be correct. One almost partner. Nothing more than a shared bed from time to time. He was considerate about my wishes. I do know my own body though. What I like, what I don’t, with my own hand as a guide. Is that enough to be going on, Doctor?  
  
 _TheDoctor_

Of course, Sherlock. I did not mean to offend you. I hope that I haven’t. So specifically, are you asking for not only recreational scolding, but sexual aspects as well. With or without said scolding?

 

_SH_

Yes. Both to feel the sex act singularly as well as the ‘recreation’. Possibly after or before; singularly as well. Then mixes of both. I am curious as to the effect the stimulus has on both.

 

_TheDoctor_

Well then, we best start with a full work up. The Physical. We can discuss things further then. Are you free tomorrow evening? After 10?

 

_SH_

I have no plans, but given my line of work, I will do my best to be free if something does land in my lap.

 

_TheDoctor_

Good. Very good. Please be fully showered and how you are dressed is up to you. I look forward to our first meeting, Sherlock.

 

_SH_

As do I, Doctor.

 

Sleeping was not something Sherlock often did willingly, even then, this wasn’t exactly willingly. It was more an exercise in sensibility, as was the tea and toast that morning. By noon he’d started  through the medical journals. Correcting them was more of an exercise in tedium, but it kept him occupied, and not thinking of what lay ahead for him that night. He found himself edgy by late afternoon, so slipped the third patch on and rested his body on the well broken in sofa; fingers pressed together found a familiar place touching lightly against his chin.

At dark, he rose, showered. Shaved. Showered again and shaved his legs because they were... prickly against one another. Depending on the bondage he had looked up, this might be beneficial, especially if ‘tape’ were involved. Finally satisfied, Sherlock toweled off once again, this time styling his curls and finishing his usual grooming rituals. As he watched his reflection he realised he was smirking. That would never do. To appear _too_ eager. Too excitable.

He wasn’t, by nature. Unless you considered a triple-locked-room mystery, well that was just Christmas … and completely beside the point at this juncture.  His violin called to him.  So did new nicotine patches. Both procured, he set himself up in front of the widow and began to play.

The singular ring of the bell sounded. Sherlock stayed in place knowing that Mrs. Hudson would have heard it on her way out to meet Mr Chatterjee and would allow The Doctor entrance. He had all sorts of people over at all hours, so this would not seem strange to her in the least. He wondered if she even cheekily flirted with him on her way out as it took 2.8 seconds more then usual for his caller to begin to ascend the stairs. Sherlock played on.

He heard a soft clearing of a throat. The Doctor was a tenor then, and shorter than him given the angle of the sound paired with the man’s distorted reflection against the rippled windowpane.

“Sherlock?”

Oh, warm too. Like an aged scotch - full and dulcet smoky tones just waiting to come to use. Marvelous.

“Doctor?” He responded in kind, making his voice slightly coy. Turning to face the room, and his singular audience, he relaxed his violin against his collar and pointed with his bow. “Very nice touch, that. The old leather satchel. Well, I say old, it _is_ new, but a timeless well known bag used by physicians for generations. Tell me, do all of your items that you need fit in it or do you change out the center of the bag depending on the _Housecall_?”

“God, your mouth. Tell me, do you always deploy your knowledge in such a fashion? Or are you just showing off?” The Doctor placed his bag on the table and sauntered up to Sherlock. “Or, is this your version of foreplay?”

His _blue_ eyes studied Sherlock, as his hands removed the violin and bow, gently setting them aside on the table before taking Sherlock’s left elbow and wrist in his hands. The tisking noise was soft, but those eyes were now hard. “What are these?”

Sherlock found himself swallowing hard, the heat of The Doctor’s body and in his voice had him riveted. “I- Patches.”

“Nicotine patches? No. Not _three_ , not ever while you are in my care, is that understood? _If_ you need, one. One, Sherlock. Do you hear me?”

The Doctor’s voice brooked no argument. “Yes. Fine. I just needed-”

“No, Sherlock, you did not _need_ this much... anything. Your heart rate is going to be a mess.” His eyes caught Sherlock’s again. “How do you expect me to get a good baseline this way? You’re the one discussing experimentation and controls and here you are already skewing your data. Tea, please.”

With that, The Doctor rapidly pulled off two of the three patches, stuck them together and threw them in the wire bin under the table, and stayed standing. To wait for tea, Sherlock supposed. With a nod, he made his way to the kitchen.

He needed a moment to collect himself at any rate. This was, not what he had expected. Sherlock knew his breathing was just off, his hands felt clammy. He was trembling. For God’s sake what the hell was happening to him. It was most unfair to be so off-footed. This never happened to him. Ever. He did not allow it. Yet, here, in his living space, was the only known exception to his rule.

Sherlock couldn’t help but to fidget, before forcing himself to still as he steeped the tea, added the milk and sugar to his guests and just sugar to his. Placing them on a tray, he took a deep breath to steady himself before re-entering the parlor. He placed it on the small circular side table, but offered the mug directly before taking his own and sitting in his favourite chair. The leather was cool against the fabric of his shirt. Nervous. This would not do.

“How long was your service?”

“Excuse me? You haven’t even gotten my name yet. Which is John, by the way. I do expect we will come to an understanding as to what you will call me, but one should know at least each others names when about to become this intimate.”

“Should they? Tell that to every hook-up centric person just outside my door, then. That is an old-fashioned stance to have for a man who has served- and fucked on... two? No, three continents, and is proud of it. Enough that you now have a thriving business in ‘recreational’ sports that occur behind closed doors. Tell me, did you know all of your prior conquests names?”

“Oh, terrible mouth. I think I’ll fix that _right_ now.” Placing his mug back on the tray as he passed it, John went to his bag and opened it. “You are going to be quite the challenge.”

He turned around, wrapping his stethoscope around his neck as he pulled out an old-fashioned thermometer and placed a condom in his pocket with a little bit of show.

“Open up.” With a wicked smile John stopped in front of Sherlock, his short fingers caressing the dark curls against Sherlock’s forehead. “Do it and I’ll give you a treat.”

Sherlock could feel his heart kick in his chest, his lip almost tremble as he did, indeed, open and accept the silly thing, his eyes looking up at John. The doctor just smiled and petted him for a second in response.

“Very good, now I’m going to unbutton this _ridiculously_ tight shirt, and have a listen.”

He was swift, all business, except where his fingertips brushed against a nipple; a newly exposed sliver of skin. Sherlock did shiver then, almost biting at the damnable glass in his mouth as he wanted to bite against the moan that escaped him. That. That was ridiculous. His shirt was perfection. John watched with a playful smile, quiet until he breathed against the diaphragm, then placed it against Sherlock’s heart. His eyebrows met his hairline then.

“Sherlock, you have to calm down... is that the remnants of the nicotine? No, I don’t think it is.” Pulling the thermometer out, he looked at it, smiled and nodded, then placed it on the table away from them before once again caressing Sherlock’s curls. “It’s alright, I’m here for you. Anything you want, in your own time, but I will get baselines tonight. Nothing further if you aren’t ready.”

“What’s my treat?” Sherlock had chosen, and he was going to see this through. He wanted to see this through... he was almightily aroused already and could see the outline of John’s cock just within his reach. He tilted his head just so and lowered his voice slightly. “Do I get a lolly?”

John laughed quietly. “Well, that is what the ‘wrapper’ is for. Being a good boy now, are we?”

“Yes, Doctor.” He knew his cheeks were colouring and he licked at his lips before letting them relax slightly open. “May I get my sweet?”

Making a noncommittal noise, John’s smile changed; edged on the predatory, but held it’s warmth as he fished out the condom. He brought Sherlock’s hand up against the obvious thickening bulge underneath his clothing. “You mean this?  You sure you’ve been good enough? I think you’re forgetting something very simple. What do we say when we want something?”

Sherlock blinked at this, took a moment before speaking. “Please?”

That was not a word that often crossed his lips, then again, he’d not ever been in a position where he earnestly meant the word itself.

“Good boy. Undo me. I’ll give you your treat.” John bit at his lip and contemplated Sherlock as he undid his trousers, his long fingers stopped and brushed against the soft cotton of his boxer briefs. “Those too, love. Come on then.”

He pressed forward, and pulled them down releasing John’s cock millimeters from his face. The slightly musky scent of warm skin filled his nostrils and made him salivate. “Please, Doctor? May I have my lolly now? I’d like to suck it a bit.”

“You bad boy, you. So naughty.” The condom was on in a flash and John wrapped Sherlock’s fingers around his cock. “Bring it to your lips, open up. Come on then, so eager.” Sherlock opened wider and took John into his mouth, just a little ways. The non-lubed latex tasted odd in his mouth, but the weight of it more than made up for it. He slipped forward in his chair and let it slip further in, sucked against it,  pulled back again. John’s fingers laced in his hair as he began quietly praising Sherlock’s decision to take it slow, how good his tongue felt against him, how perfect his mouth was.

It was all so much. He whimpered as John began rocking his hips slowly, filling his mouth then retreating as he shivered and squirmed in his seat. His own cock was terribly hard, and possibly sticky. He could feel damp, of sorts as it rubbed against his pants. It was torture. John grunted and picked up the pace his eyes on Sherlock’s face watching him. The heat of it set his heart from fluttering to thundering as he was suddenly overwhelmed, wetness flooding his trousers as he came suddenly and John slowed and pulled away.

“Oh, love. So sweet. It’s fine.” The words were almost whispered, John’s voice was rough with want and Sherlock felt both wonderful and terrible. “Lets get you cleaned up, and on the bed, alright? It really is your first time, isn’t it?”

All Sherlock could do was nod as John half-tucked himself away and pulled him to standing, then shepherding him to the bathroom. The Doctor stripped him as he ran the tap hot and found a flannel, cleaning the emissions away.  Once again he was soothing him with kind words that were completely unexpected before ushering him to his bed through the pocket door.

“I’m-”

“No. You’re not allowed to apologise.” John was undressing now, quickly and efficiently, including the binning of the unused condom. “That. That was beautiful. Giving yourself up to me, giving in to just that moment. It’s all fine.” He snuck under the covers with Sherlock and began stroking gently against his torso. “Give me your hand, we’ll go from there.”

Sherlock took him in hand. John’s fingers wrapped around his own and then he was moving them. Together. It was new, unusual, but he found himself wanting this. Wrapped in John and holding his cock; making him gasp the way he was. John’s other hand found the curls at the nape of his neck and found a home there, laying down and allowing Sherlock to partially cover him as they moved together. He pressed against John’s thigh, slipping a leg slightly over as the need to _touch_ and _categorise_ came over him. John moved his hips, releasing himself and pressing at Sherlock’s own, whispering between hot breaths and panted kisses how to maneuver them together and then moaned loudly at the contact.

“John... I.” What one said during _this_ , Sherlock did not know, but he was certain what not to say. “You feel _wonderful_ underneath me.” It was nothing but the truth. Even though he was not even half-hard yet, John’s heat and the taut skin; the slickness. “John, please- I want this to be good-”

John took his mouth once again and kissed him deeply, his hand wrapping around the both of them as he canted his hips, creating more friction. Sherlock found his hands caressing a hip and caressing John’s cheek and it was more than a little marvelous feeling John shatter between them. He rode through John’s orgasm, trying to remember the words John had used, siping kisses timidly as John slowed to a stop and just breathed the air between them.

“So fucking perfectly lovely, Sherlock. You. Are brilliant.” He finally spoke against Sherlock’s lips as he came back to himself. “I do hope, you’re alright?” Concern crossed his face as he felt Sherlock’s still rabbiting pulse under his palm. “Not overwhelmed, then?”

Sherlock experimentally rolled his hips against the slick left between them, a breathy sort of caught-moan escaping him. “You have no cause for concern, John.”

“ _Fucking_ amazing.” John kissed him softly, just a press of lips against one another; tenderly, as if Sherlock were something precious. “Sweet, where have you been hiding?”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth while a blush crept across his cheeks in wonder.  “Baker Street.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:
> 
> There are mentions of cannon typical violence as well as sexual assault post-death in this chapter. John also is concerned, for reasons that you will see, but I PROMISE that Sherlock was not raped.

**Fresh Terror in White Chapel**

___________________

Janette Owen

_Crime correspondent_

A rash of serial sadistic acts has left a fourth dead in these most recent attacks. The Met has remained tight lipped as to suspects, as well as the injuries involved in this last attack, but has assured the media that they, indeed, are on the case and are following all leads. D.I. Gregory Lestrade was alongside D.S. Sally Donovan at time of the conference that led to no light being shed on the situation. The best advice they had to give was to ‘be vigilant’ and ‘aware’ of one’s surroundings at all time. As there has still been no direct links given to the press between the victims, it seems as there not only isn’t one, but that the perpetrator is heading deeper into the Whitechapel area, and looking to beat the Ripper’s record.

 

 

****  
_TheDoctor_ **  
**

Sherlock? I tried to email you about the broken appointment, I wanted to make sure you are well.

 

_SH_

Working.

  

_TheDoctor_

The Ripper-wannabe?

 

_SH_

You know I cannot divulge any information. That being said, this case is a seven. Possibly eight.

 

_T_ _heDoctor_

Make sure you are taking time to nourish your body and rest. I will see you next week?

 

_SH_

Certainly. Thank you, John.

 

_TheDoctor_

Be safe, Sherlock.

 

 

 

**Whitechapel Rocked by Latest Gruesome Find**

____________________

Janette Owen

_Crime correspondent_

A fifth person has died today in the Whitechapel area; signs on the crime scene reportedly corresponding with the ‘Serial Sadist’s’ penchant. Case is ongoing. London is wondering if the Ripper has come once again to it’s streets. An unknown man was seen talking with the lead detective, D.I. Gregory Lestrade, at the scene. One wonders if they have called in reinforcements from other parts, or a possible Ripperologist. All questions unanswered regarding this timely development at time of print.

 

 

 

_SH_

How would you ‘safeword’ if you are bound and gagged?

 

_TheDoctor_

Do I want to know why you are asking such an advanced question?

_SH_

You know why, now please, how would you?

 

_TheDoctor_

Hand signals? But, no because you stated bound. Possible tapping rhythm? Head movement? Have you eaten today?

 

_SH_

Slows me down. Is bloodletting common?

 

_TheDoctor_

The correct term is ‘bloodplay’, and not common, but does occur. Sherlock, I really do not like this line of questioning. You are staying safe?

_SH_

As Houses, John. Houses! You are brilliant.

 

_TheDoctor_

Don’t go tearing off without the detective. There will be a very serious discussion if you do.

_TheDoctor_

Sherlock?

 

 

 

**Whitechapel Sleuth dubbed ‘Hero Holmes’**

____________________

Janette Owen

_Crime correspondent_

Through a series of not-quite believable leaps of logic, a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes has cracked the case. The ‘Consulting- Detective’ had little to say to us at time of press conference, allowing D.I. Gregory Lestrade to field all questions. It is known that the solemn Holmes was on site and transported to a nearby A&E for injuries sustained. Any questions regarding his personal health went unanswered. We now know that the ‘Serial Sadist of White Chapel’ was indeed a Ripper aficionado and was working on his own, as one Met official working the case confided. London may, once again, take a collective breath of relief thanks to this enigmatic man. D.I. Lestrade stated that he might be brought in to work cold-cases as his insight was ‘of a singular sort’. The person-of interest, one Jefferson Lyle Hope, is currently in custody with the full bent of the law resting on his shoulders tonight. The families wish to thank both the Met and Mr. Holmes for their pains and vigilance in their loved ones names. Midnight vigil at nearby Saint Mary’s Park, hosted by the local Jack the Ripper Tours for the families and victims of the Serial Sadist as they seek solace now that they can finally have closure.

 

 

_Sherlock,_

_As I have not heard from you for a cancellation, expect me promptly at eight this evening instead of ten. We obviously have much to discuss regarding your general lack of disinterest in remaining all together and in one piece instead of the bits that that madman was carving people into. How would that be for slowing you down? I expect you thoroughly showered and dressed in only your house robe so that I may examine you myself without any preamble. I will also be bringing dinner, Indian. Vegetarian as well as some sort of meat option. You will eat and hydrate as we discuss where these actions leave us._

_**  
**_

_Ever yours,_

_John_

_The Doctor_

 

 

 

John rang promptly at eight. He’d stopped at his favourite Indian restaurant, which was a little out of the way, but he would be damned if he wasn’t going to get quality food for his most recent client. The man obviously had zero self-preservation instincts; probably would have made a good commando. And most likely a dead one too. He swallowed, shoving his temper down hard, and concentrating on the facts that he knew. Sherlock had been working that damnable ‘Sadist’ case, had gotten a brilliant epiphany while chatting with John, which led to God-knows-what and what harm done, before the arsehole murdering rapist was apprehended.  

He’d actually been tempted to break protocol and contact Sherlock directly via his mobile; possibly even stop by after he’d seen the news. Two weeks. It had been two weeks, well as of tonight, since John had his first session with Sherlock.

Their first night.

Sherlock had touched something deeply buried in him; something he had previously never let clients near. Anyone near, really. Trust issues, he’d been told. No, he would assure them, it was self preservation. Simple. It had been so simple. With Sherlock, it seemed as if everything was about to get a hell of a lot more complicated. All of his senses were heightened as if he were back in Afghanistan. Living again with that constant wary-alertness that dogged him tirelessly. It seemed as if he was going to have to get used to it again. Well fuck that. No, the concern, the care absolutely. The terror that your friend might be one of the ones coming in already dead? This was London, not a bloody-cocked up warzone.

Seemed like, to court Sherlock Holmes, one had to see the battlefield.

Was he willing to live his life that way for just one client?

That client, Sherlock, needed someone. Someone multitalented, able to allow him to open up as beautifully as he did. Someone able to kick his lily arse back to next week when he was being an absolute fucking idiot, despite all of that intellect he obviously held. How someone could just do something as reckless as that ... and willingly so?

That was what really made his blood run cold, the thought of Sherlock... so out of step and just learning... someone could use him; hurt him so easily. _Or worse_. It made him physically ill just- no. _No_. It hadn’t happened hopefully. And if it had?

John would be there to pick up the pieces if Sherlock wanted. Maybe even if he didn’t. The man needed friends. It tugged at his heartstrings as the softly open look Sherlock had had on his face came to him. He’d been so expressive, after. That was a little bit of fragile and a little bit of wonderful and John would do anything to protect it.

 

The door opening brought John back to himself. The landlady smiled sweetly at him as she pulled him into the foyer inside from the cold and tutted over him.

“Now, he’s a bit outside of himself, dear. Worried that you are... quite angry. He’s been through enough, young man. Take it a bit easy on him? It’s not normally at sixes and sevens here. Go feed him up and give him a shoulder. There you go.”

She shooed him towards the stairs with a concerned smile and soft look about her eyes.

“He’ll be... I can’t promise I won’t shout at him a bit, you understand, but I’m not here to hurt him.”

“Good. See that you don’t, dear.” With a knowing look, the landlady headed out the door for the evening. “Goodnight, tell him that I’ll be back late?”

John nodded, biting his lip to stop the rueful smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

His feet felt heavy on the treads as he took them as quickly as he could.  Soon he was met with the partially open door, just as before. What John hadn’t been expecting was a Sherlock nervously standing in the center of his own living space, in naught but a robe, hands holding elbows with downcast eyes.

He looked oh so lonely and forlorn.

The Indian was dropped onto the sofa table and his feet carried him to Sherlock with purpose. His arms found him impossibly thinner than their first meeting, his eyes found greyish-purple hollows under his long dark lashes. Sherlock felt - broken, different.

“Oh, God. Sherlock. No, no... come here to me.” John backed away only to have Sherlock cling to him before going slack and allowing himself to be led to his chair. He sat in the leather chair pulling Sherlock down onto his lap. “Sherlock? It’s alright, well it’s really not, but it is. I know you are clever enough to understand.” He tried to be careful where he made contact with the gangly weed as he’d heard the hiss of breath a couple of times now as Sherlock was maneuvered. “I still need to look you over. I mean that. God, what- you don’t have to say... I’ll be able to see, it’s alright.”

John knew he had to rein it in. He was losing his professionalism and allowing his worry to lead him. Right now, he needed to be strong. He still had to look Sherlock over and assess the damage; feed him something and get some tea down him as well. Possibly some analgesics.

“Come on then, I’ll carry you. Just- hold on.” The lack of verbal response was worrying.

Sherlock settled against him with a sharp wince that John tsked at. “I’m not a child, Doctor.”

“Yes, well, this isn’t about that right now, Sherlock. This is about your health. Later, well, there will probably be quite a bit of shouting, which you deserve, but this... you did not. Let me see to you.”

“Fine.” The word was mumbled against his collar just before he sat Sherlock down on his bed.

“I’ll be right back with my bag, please take off your robe. Lay down however it hurts the least.”

Not two minutes later was John back in Sherlock’s bedroom, his jaw tightly clamped shut. He refused to react to the crisscrossing of welts and tears across Sherlock’s back. His thighs as well. God, no wonder he had winced. At least the skin hadn’t been opened. The killer must have been improvising.

“He was just ‘warming-up’; what he told me.” Sherlock’s voice was still quiet, but steady. “See no permanent damage, John. I’ll be fine-”

“Shut up.” John shook his head as his voice cracked. “Just- shut up a moment, yea?”

Very professional of him. He’d done worse with his own hands to others who had begged for it. Seen worse in Afghanistan. So much worse... that was it. John swallowed and took a couple of calming breaths. “Anything else, I need to know? As a physician... the rest... can hang at the moment. Now, Sherlock. You know, whatever you want to tell me, it’s- I won’t tell a soul. Ever.”

“He didn’t, John. Not, it wasn’t anything. He wasn’t a sexual predator which is why he used the bodies after death, the bruising was conclusive of that, before he dismembered or disfigured them. It was-”

“Stop.”

John swiftly went through the pocket door and shut it just as quickly. He’d felt it, the creep of the bile threatening to escape. Messing with the taps in the sink, he got the water tepid before splashing his face and wetting the back of his neck. He stood there for a good second before shutting them back off. Then turning them back on and retrieving a flannel and getting it damp. Wordlessly giving himself a pep talk in the mirror the likes of which he hadn’t in ages.  He turned and headed back into Sherlock’s room through the same door.

“Better?” Sherlock asked, his head turned away. “I would understand if this ‘relationship’ has become distasteful to you.”

“Sherlock, no. I am fine with us, it was, other things.  I swear. Now, let me tend to your back.”

“Fine.” The word was empty.

John reached down, to gently dab at the angry red marks. “I know, I know. I’ll make it better.” The laboured breathing bothered him, but there was nothing for it at the moment. He was trying to give Sherlock some sense of privacy if he needed a bit of a cry. He’d just care for him through it, let it hopefully wash over and through him so he could let it go. “See, not so bad. Getting the ointments, one tic.”

He pulled both the arnica and the antibiotic ointment out as he spoke softly to ease the quiet of the room; allowed Sherlock to just be. It was slow going, but within an hour, John had thoroughly massaged and soothed the skin and muscle as much as he dared. Sherlock was still quiet. John was surprised when Sherlock kneeled up and exposed himself to John’s purview. His eyes lit with hellfire when he realised the inside of Sherlock’s thighs were bruised. Dark already. God, he would kill the bastard. All he would need was a rifle and a clear shot.

“Take me, John.”

This was reflexive. Sherlock did not mean this and John well knew it. He’d have to tread lightly.

“Let me take care of your thighs first, they have to hurt, holding your body up-”

“John,” His name was a warning. “Fuck me, or get out.”

So it was to be that way.

“No, no I won’t. I will pleasure you, make no mistake, but I’ll not _fuck_ you until all of this is healed. I want that to be a distant memory when I take you fully. I don’t want it muddled together for you. Your arse is so very sweet, Sherlock.” John gently grazed at his perineum. “So untouched. I want so much for you to not be in any pain. A bit of rough fucking, it’s great. Playing with the pain/pleasure threshold... I want to get you there. But by my hand, with your permission. Do you understand?”

Sherlock honest to God whimpered; a low sound that hit John right in the gut. He felt Sherlock’s bollocks twitch, the sac itself drawing up some. Gingerly, John cupped them and slowly pulled them down. The whimper became a moan. It was a test of his will not to lean in and lick at that pert arsehole that was nestled between those two sweet cheeks. No, not yet. Maybe in a week, when things were healing well. He shifted on the bed a bit more, bringing his other hand under to reach around and tug at Sherlock’s half-hard cock.

“It’s alright if you can’t; I don’t expect anything. This is just for you, love.” His finger found its way between Sherlock’s foreskin and the tip of him. Slowly stroked a lazy circle. John’s other hand still gently playing with Sherlock’s bollocks. “May I kiss you? Just a little. If it is too much you are to use your ‘safe words’, alright? If any of this is too much.”

“No, mhmm, please.” John could see the quiver in Sherlock’s thighs, but also saw the slight sway of his hips as well. “Green, Doctor. Green.”

“There’s a good boy.” He kneeled up behind Sherlock and bent, pressing the lightest of kisses against his lower back, his nose running along the cleft of him. The skin was too hot, and John warred with himself internally before calming. Small steps. “That good?”

“Yes.” The reply was syrupy, almost treacle rich. “More.”

“Not too much, I want to use my mouth on your cock tonight, how do you feel about that?” John nuzzled against the soft dark sparse hair at the top of Sherlock’s thigh before kissing the underside of a cheek, then his lower hip. “It will be with a condom, no negotiation, but I’d love to do that for you, Sherlock. May I kiss you, suck you until you come?”

Sherlock slowly rolled onto his right hip, John’s hand tracing along his side up to his face to meet his lips in a soft kiss.

“Breathtaking. You are. Do you even understand? This body, your body... I could worship it for hours. Please don’t take that away from us, please be more careful, Sherlock.” John rolled the condom from his pocket onto him as he spoke; Sherlock’s breath stuttered at the intimate touch. “I want to learn how to take you to pieces, how to put you back together again. Watch you come down as I care for you after a scene. Love, Sherlock, please.”

He worked his way down Sherlock’s torso as he spoke, whispering kisses along his nipples, his sternum, his navel to that thick snatch of curled hair where Sherlock’s cock bobbed as he stroked it. John licked with decent pressure just along the underside of his cock, laving it hotly, getting it wet so the latex wouldn’t stick against his lips. Sherlock groaned and gripped at John’s hair; he allowed it.

“Watch me, love.” John eased down Sherlock’s cock slowly, his eyes locked with near colourless ones that were wide and startled and excited. Moving a hand to Sherlock’s hip, he caressed it as he bobbed all the way down on him. Then swallowed.

“Christ, John! Oh bloody fuck!”

He smiled around Sherlock’s girth at the crass language. Then did it again, repeating the slow movements. Making it last for Sherlock. Giving him time to really enjoy himself beyond the startling sensation of _wet_ and _warm_ against his cock. John pulled at his bollocks, massaging them again. Softly. The whimpers and sighs coming from Sherlock were some of the sweetest sounds John had ever heard. He knew he was in dangerous territory, but then again John realised how much he really cared and realised he wouldn’t be able to hold it close to his chest for long. Somehow this brilliant genius would figure it out.

“John, John... John... JOHN!” Sherlock cried out his name as he spilled into the condom; John hummed against him adding to the sensation. “Fuck, your mouth, I-”

“Broken you, have I?” John smiled wolfishly as he removed the condom, went to grab another flannel, and cleaned Sherlock. He felt light himself, watching Sherlock as he relaxed against the duvet.

“Hmm.” Sherlock grabbed for him then and kissed him sloppily. “Stay?”

“Yea, but we are talking in the morning. Over breakfast.  Leftover curry, I think.”

John undressed and tucked them both under the heavy duvet, pulling Sherlock against his side. As he followed Sherlock into sleep, he knew that he had a lot of soul searching to do over the beautiful man in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a super quick note. There are more chapters incoming, but I am also in the middle of updating two other works. I am so humbled by the response to this. Thank you all for the comments and kudos!

Sherlock woke in the quiet grey of a London morning. It was still the weak light of pre-dawn; they’d left his black-out curtains open and the shifting from the sodium lights to true light was a mottled not-orange not-white, just diffused. He felt the warmth of another under the duvet with him, but only after his heart had slowed. The first few seconds, maybe a minute given his internal clock was off by .04, was panic. Frozen bodily panic.

Now though; he was breathing, was in his room. Was safe. John was beside him, still slumbering. He went to stretch and cried out, shocked by the pain. It hadn’t all been a nightmare. He knew that, but he had been... well, comfortable. Enough to let the buzzing ache be pressed to the far back of his mind; ignored in lieu of the wonder that was his Doctor in bed with him even still.

“Sherlock, Sherlock. You’re alright.” John’s voice soothed as Sherlock groaned and curled up towards John’s heat. “No, that will hurt _more_... come on then...” He was moved around to where John could spoon him. Calmed and maneuvered as he shook like a leaf.

No. He had more control than this. “It’s alright, John.”

If his voice sounded more strained than usual, it was ignored. Sherlock knew he was fine, knew the damage was still only really superficial. Bruising of ego, of skin.

“No, it really isn’t,” came the gruff reply. “That bastard-”

“He’s gone. Off to Gaul. Never to be seen again.” Sherlock’s brain whirred into action forwarding to the court, the case itself. That was months away. He would see the man gone. “Well, I will still have to see him once, but you never actually have to lay eyes on him-”

“Just shut up. Now. Your tensing up is going to make it worse. I’ll be surprised if you even get out of bed today.” John’s voice was certainly strained. “I’ll get you some paracetamol, even though I think you might actually need a script for-”

“No; nothing more than that.” Sherlock tried to look over his shoulder at John. “It won’t do.”

There was a second of surprise, possibly shock before it mellowed away. “Right. Well, I’ll figure out something. You might just be a bit tipsy today then, for medical reasons, of course.”

He heard the soft half-joking tone in John’s voice. That was better. “Might be Lestrade-”

“What are you on about-”

The loud knock on Sherlock’s bedroom door had John up in an instant, nude or not, small baton in hand as the door burst open energetically. “Sherlock! I’ve been-”

John had the silver-haired man on his front and on the floor subdued almost faster than Sherlock had ever seen anyone move. He was crouched, holding Lestrade; his arm obviously at a very uncomfortable angle in John’s capable hands. It would almost be funny if it weren’t for the low growl of John’s voice threatening things that Sherlock had never thought the man capable of while he barked at Sherlock to dial 999 for him.

“Stop!” He didn’t mean to bellow, had only meant it to be sharp. Was that panic in his voice? No. “John, this is Lestrade. He’s with the Met.”

“Oh well fucking bloody hell!” He released Lestrade, but moved  between him and Sherlock. “What the- get away from us unless you have a warrant! There is no reason, as his physician, that I can see that facilitates that sort of entry into a private residence unless you are wearing a vest and have company with you. Get the fuck out.”

“He didn’t even give time for a statement.” Lestrade bristled back, but stood slowly, hands outstretched, his eyes flitting between Sherlock and John. “Look, I don’t know who you are-”

“Damn right you don’t. It’s not your business. Again, get out of this private residence or I’ll not only eject you, I’ll call 999 myself while doing so. What in god’s name gives you the right to barge in on someone who did you a service,  _and_ , because of said service, is now suffering physical as well as trauma-induced injuries? Oh, of course, you didn’t think about that did you? Tell me? Is this how the Met pays back someone who _just_ _caught_ them a murdering sadistic arse who also loved to mark up his victims even more post-mortem? Tell me, detective, what on earth possessed you to let him out of your sight? Even I know better and I’ve only known him a few weeks! You don’t dangle danger in front of a man who’s bloody well tasted action!”

As he listened to the tirade, Sherlock’s eyebrows were in his hair as he gingerly sat up; the pace aggravatingly slow for him. Watching John, he realised a new-found appreciation for the man. He knew the soldier side of him existed, but the fierce protectiveness, that was unexpected.

“John, this isn’t unusual-”

“Well it _bloody_ well should be!” John was still visibly bristling. “This is your flat; your sanctuary. People should not be coming in and out as they see fit no matter what they might think to the contrary!” His voice had carried a trace of something in it; some seriousness that Sherlock could not readily suss out. “Now, Inspector, if you would like Sherlock to come down to the Met, text him. Email him. Call him. I can tell you that you have done none of these things. Sherlock, shall I see him out?”

“No, _John_ , is it? I’ll see myself that way.” Lestrade warily eyed John which intrigued Sherlock as well. “Sherlock, please, if you can come down later today, we really do need that statement.”

He looked once again between John and him and just shook his head; confusion clearly in his every move.

“Ta, mate. Close the door on your way out.” John had sauntered nude through the short hall to the kitchen; Sherlock could tell that he was standing there still as he spoke. “And ask the landlady to not admit anyone else, if you would.”

The edge in John’s voice caused Sherlock to tremble.

Ridiculous.

He laid back against the covers and sighed trying to relax; it was painful and it was affecting him and he knew it. That was all the flutter of his heart was. Sherlock closed his eyes and took steady breaths, pacing them to a slow count in his head.

“That’s very good, Sherlock. Is it helping?” John’s voice was near him, but not quite at the bed.

“No. Possibly. Damn that imbecile.” Sherlock groused as he thought over the case. “It was an interesting one, but I didn’t mean to become injured. It’s one thing to get captured on purpose-”

“What?” The coolness of the singular word was almost like a slap against his face.

“I _didn’t_ , John... not this time-”

“Not this-” John’s face did this complicated contortion as emotions flew across it before it settled into a neutral expression. “Look, Sherlock. I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, alright, but I’ve been there, in the thick of things...” John swallowed hard before he spoke again, his eyes trained on Sherlock. “It’s easy. To get caught up in the drive to find the fucker, yea? To finish the mission, the case, as you would call it. I just- You need to not go in alone. That’s when you’re fucked, yea? Just advice. Now, want some tea? Hot shower?”

“Tea?” Sherlock knew his bafflement at the deflated situation was clear.

“Yes. Right then.” John’s face smoothed to something serene. “Stay put, unless you need the loo.”

Sherlock laid back, shifting again until he was as comfortable as he could be with bruised ribs. He traced John’s progress in his kitchen by the sounds he was making. Kettle, around table, tap for water. Back around table to plug in kettle. Rummaging in bread box for toast. He laughed quietly at the exasperated sigh he heard as that occurred remembering the soil samples he’d stored there. They were in sealed pucks; it would be fine. More rummaging and then a squawk of surprise. Ah, John found his pickling experiment. The kettle sounded a clear chime and then there was more shuffling and an opening of something wrapped in cello, then John’s feet were once again against the tile in the hall leading to his room.

“Did you know that you have a drain grate in your hall? And another in your kitchen?”

“Yes, they were installed after the flooding.”

“Do I even want to know? Nevermind... Why do you have them covered?”

No uncertainty, just curiosity. He wasn’t sure how to accept it. “Because they look suspect. Not something you would normally see in a flat, is it? People begin questioning reasons for such addition. Idiots, the lot of them.”

“I take it that this Lestrade is one of them?”

“His first time here was for a drug bust. An informant had given a tip that I was creating certain substances in a home lab. Entirely untrue. But with the grates and my two larger lattices up, to the eye of a layman, let alone multiple officers from the Met, well-”

John sat at the edge of the bed and handed over a mug of milky tea. “So they, what? Ransacked your flat, saw the ‘industrial’ look of it all and what? Assumed it was correct? Hauled you in?” He gave Sherlock an appraising look. “Who was the ‘tip’ from?”

“My arch enemy _and_ not our concern right now.” The tea was sublime. Perfectly sweetened, just a little over much. The doctor was trying to get calories into him surreptitiously. He supposed he would allow it. This time. “But it did turn advantageous a few weeks later when Lestrade came and offered a case. Locked room. Oh, it was only a three in the end, but for a few precious moments, I was on fire.”

From the look John was giving him, Sherlock could only assume what he looked, let alone sounded, like. He looked down to his tea. Busied himself with sipping it.

“Brilliant.” The word was a warm caress not expected.

“What?” His eyes were immediately on John.

“Amazing. You. It’s... Sherlock, you have no idea do you?” John wove his fingers into the snarls of his curls. “You are... you deserve...” He stopped himself by pressing his lips softly against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock breathed in, gripping his tea tight between his palms in favour of drinking in the sensations offered by John’s mouth. It tasted sweet, bitter, of sleep. It rattled him. He heard himself gasp against the kiss; the gentle exploration. Then he felt shorter, far surer fingers remove the mug from his hands and heard the soft click of ceramic onto the wood of his bedside. Sherlock pulled at John then, wanted him on top, the sturdy weight of him. He knew, oh he knew, he was going to pay dearly for all of this, but he’d always loved the thrill of the chase. How would this be any different?

John’s hands were on either side of his chest, holding his weight. Hovering. John’s thighs resting between Sherlock’s knees. He raised his legs; intertwined them over John’s legs. Sherlock’s hips shifted creating friction for his naked cock. It felt new. Scintillating. Sherlock realised he was still nude from the night previous; that John still was. How this thought had not fully hit home until now attested to the extent of how much his injuries had truly taken out of him.

“Oh, that’s lovely. Feel good?” John was verbally checking. He must have felt the slight hitch; the awareness click into place. “Too much?”

Sherlock tipped his lips back up to John’s, capturing his top one and gingerly pulling back before pressing against them fully. The skin against skin contact was thrilling. He could feel John’s muscles flex and relax sympathetically as he breathed, rubbing his cock by sheer closeness. Hands free to roam, Sherlock wrapped them around John’s neck to not disturb their position. Looking between their bodies, he felt himself flush as he realised just how aroused he was.

“No.” Even his voice sounded subdued to himself. “No,” Sherlock reiterated. “I’m certain this is what is commonly known as _morning_ glory, actually just nocturnal tumescence, which is creating the _fullness_ , erectness of, said member. This is not to say that I do not want you John, as I do, I seem to be experiencing some sort of _reticence_.”

“Ah, I see.” John nodded sagely, staying put, but began nuzzling at Sherlock’s throat. “We could just have our curry.”

Sherlock heard the light tease in John’s voice. “No, I do want you... there. Touching. The slide of your skin, hair against the underside of my shaft-”

“Fucking hell, Sherlock.” John’s voice dropped to a pleasant caramel-warm tone. “God, keep talking.”

He could feel John’s hips, see them, slowly shifting giving himself friction against the bedding.

“That’s, your movements-”

“Grinding.”

“Your _grinding_ is pressing against my... my-”

“Cock? Bollocks?”

“The grinding is pressing my cock against your torso, your hair... tickling the exposed bit. Oh _fuck_ , John...”

John kissed his shoulder, making a winding path back towards his throat as he spoke. “Yea, beautiful?”

“I want _more_.” It was ephemerial, what he was feeling. The want to _possess_. To _own_. It was new, uncertain, but, so powerful. To procreate even though his partner would not carry his child. The drive was still there. To plunder. “Want to press in you. Deep. Bury myself.”

“That all?” John continued to nuzzle at him as he whispered against his skin. “Of course, Sherlock. Of course.”

Bodies shifted as John moved ever so gingerly away from Sherlock, making sure not to jostle him very much before reaching in the draw for the bottle of lube and a condom. Kneeling on the bed, he smiled brightly at him. As he rolled the condom onto Sherlock, he kept his voice soft.

“I’m going to prep myself, one second-” The kiss was sweet as John rolled off of the bed and sauntered out of the room just to return with his bag. Opening it, he pulled out a glove and snapped it on. “Not for you.” John winked saucily as he kneeled once again and pressed some of the gelatinous lube onto his fingers. “Come here then.”

John straddled Sherlock, his hand coming up to Sherlock’s nape. Tilting his brow towards Sherlock, he rested there as Sherlock watched the minute changes to John’s face as he pressed into himself.

“You aren’t in discomfort?” The wonder was clear in his voice. “Let me kiss you, John.”

“Anything. Yes.”

Sherlock tipped his head forward, capturing John’s mouth in an open kiss. Soft, wet, breathy. It was doing things to Sherlock; things to his heart. He felt it kick unmercifully in his chest, almost at a colt’s pace as they crowded close to one another. John pulled his hand away from himself, quickly removed his glove and threw it inside out by his bag in a neat ball. Sherlock watched it, then turned his focus back to the man he was holding in his arms. He was trembling, warring within himself about the position, but John was... he had the knowledge that Sherlock lacked.

John gripped him, and lowered himself to the brink. “Ready, Sherlock?”

“Yes.”  

He gripped at John’s hips as John pressed downwards. Feeling the ridge open, accept him, he watched himself disappear. He couldn’t look away. The duality of feeling and sight of the act, the heat of John wrapping around him. Sherlock looked up again to meet John’s eyes, his own slightly out of focus, as John took all of him. He blinked swiftly, to clear his vision and realised that there were tears against his eyelashes; that John’s face had gone soft with some emotion that Sherlock not even dare to hope was really there.

“Sherlock,” His hands cupped Sherlock’s face. “Breathe.”

“I can feel your pulse.” It was a low hiss that emanated from him. “You... you’re surrounding me.” Sherlock felt warm, safe. The sensation was overwhelming and when John began to move, he trembled, unable to control the flood of chemicals rushing through him, affecting him this way. Sentimentality. But how could he not be when he was _joined_ with him. With John. Accepted. “Oh, God, John. I didn’t know. Expect you. Ever.”

He knew he was rambling; something that never occurred. Somehow he had short circuited. It was novel. Then John moved again and all thought was lost.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/19 Chapters are open ended again! I am not sure what happened, but fixed! There will be more coming in this story. Thanks for letting me know in the comments!
> 
> Sorry for delay darlings, this weekend has been much busier than anticipated. Next chapter is halfway done!  You may always follow me at [AlwaysHeadOverHeels](alwaysheadoverheels.tumblr.com) on tumblr for updates on all current fiction that is on going.

11:30 GMT Coffee? -SH

 

11:30 GMT  _Sherlock?_

 

11:32 GMT Obvious. -SH

 

11:33 GMT _This could be nice. Not how I usually communicate._

 

11:35 GMT Creates attachments where there are none. -SH

11:35 GMT Now, coffee? -SH

 

11:36 GMT _Are you asking me out for coffee? Or?_

 

11:36 GMT Well, why else would I ask? -SH

11:37 GMT Isn’t that what people do? Go for coffee?-SH

11:37 GMT Meet you at Criterion in 20 mins? SH  
  


11:40 GMT _Sure, that’ll do. At Criterion._

 

12:10 GMT _Did I get the time wrong?_

12:34 GMT _Sherlock?_

17:00 GMT _Must be a case._

17:01 GMT _It’s fine. Be safe._

 

John, 

I have become otherwise indisposed for the time being. Thank you for our association while it lasted. I will be unavailable for the foreseeable future.

S. Holmes

 

21:27 GMT   _Sherlock._

21:30 GMT _Look, I think someone has hacked your email._

21:31 GMT _It doesn’t sound right._

21:35 GMT _If I do not get a reply, I’ll assume the worst._

 

METSEARCH: Lestrade, G., Detective Inspector, Homicide and Serious Crime Command

New Scotland Yard, 8-10 Broadway, London SW1H 0BG, United Kingdom

Phone # +44 20 5555 1212

 

[OUTGOING CALL 23:00] _Inspector Lestrade? Hi, this is John, you might remember me. We met approximately one week ago at a mutual friends around breakfast time. I’m concerned about him, something is not sitting right. Call it old army instincts. Could you... stop by there? Thanks._

 

The call-up from his door buzzer woke him up. Looking at the clock it had gone almost four in the morning. There had better be a bloody emergency. John swiped at the face of his phone and pressed the icon for the app.

“Yeah? Someone had bloody well be on death’s door for this.”

“Funny you should use those words, John. It’s Greg Lestrade. Detective inspector. You left me a message this morning? I’d like to come up if that’s possible.”

John groaned, shuffling to sitting. “Yeah. Yeah. Sec, I’ll let you in.”

This did not bode well. What the fresh hell was this? He hoped this wasn’t a ‘ _You broke his heart I’m going to fuck your world over_ ’ sort of conversation he was about to have. Sherlock had dropped off the face of the planet, digitally speaking. John wasn’t the sort to darken doorways, so he wasn’t going to just waltz to Baker Street without at least an invitation. Yeah there had been that email, the thing just seemed _off_. Not as in socially tone deaf or has no clue how to end things... if there was one this John knew about Sherlock it was that he spoke his mind. This seemed blank, generic compared to previous correspondence, like comparing a greeting card to a love letter.

He pulled on some track bottoms and shrugged his heavier robe on before traversing down to the kitchen. He could hear footsteps in the foyer, so he swiped his finger across his iPad and pressed the app to adjust lighting. He decided to hell with it and pressed ‘MORNING’ setting. Might as well, he wouldn’t be back to bed no matter what the inspector had to say. John flicked on the kettle in front of him and pulled out the thick sliced dark bread he preferred and set it into the toaster oven.

“Morning, Inspector. Tea? Or coffee? I’m making toast.”

“ _John Watson_ , where the hell is he?”

Well that was not what he’d expected to hear. Looking over his shoulder, he took in the rough edges of the man and steeled himself internally. “I have no clue. He didn’t show for a coffee date. Thought he was busy with a case, so I was fine with it,” John pulled a second mug, put a sachet in both and filled them with the boiled water. “Milk? Sugar? Look, there was this _email_. It was, well it was just off. That’s when I texted him and told him that I’d assume the worst. Didn’t hear back after; contacted you.” Handing the mug over to Lestrade, he placed the sugar bowl and small milk pitcher on the table before retrieving his own mug and sitting at the nook. “So you don’t have any...?”

“Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, other than that morning and what folders I could find were a redacted lattice of swiss cheese. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t in today. Sherlock wasn’t there either. I would rather take you in for questioning on this; it’s burning my arsehole not doing it, but you’re obviously not some pissed off ex-junkie or tied to his past. You actually have a medical license... and you don’t give off that spook vibe. Well maybe a little. Point is, Sherlock is not home. Hasn’t been given for a while given the state of things in his flat.”

“You don’t think. Oh, God.” John blinked hard once, feeling the duality of his cool kitchen and the hot desert sun for a moment. “Let me help find him.”

Lestrade tilted his head, watching John closely as he stood and got out the toast, buttered it and plated it, pulling jam from the fridge.

“John, look, it’s not that easy.” Lestrade took a sip of his tea this time, then cleared his throat. “He has a spook of a brother that, well, he can be a right arse. Threw Sherlock in rehab once just to prove that he could. Boy had been sober for a while. Stunt all but ruined his work with the Met. One reason he’s a consultant now. And basically babysat.”

“Oh, lovely. Have you gone to him yet?” John took a bite of the crisp bread, thankful that is was still warm. “I mean, yeah might be a pain in the arse but-?”

“What’s this email you were talking about?”

John fixed Lestrade with a look and cleared his throat. “This one.”

He flipped his iPad around and pulled it up for Lestrade to read without touching the device. Lestrade’s eyebrown furrowed then raised.

“Doesn't sound like Himself.” He shook his head and sipped at the cooled tea.

Lestrade pulled out his mobile and stood up, going just to the entryway of John’s kitchen before making a call. John couldn’t hear much, but he knew the sound of someone who sounds nonchalant and is shamming. Lestrade sounded nothing like that. He was a D.I., so Lestrade had to have some skill. Coming back to the nook, he clued John in that he’d tried to contact Sherlock’s brother, but instead was told by his P.A. that he was in Geneva.She assured he would return the call when possible, and at this, Greg rolled his eyes. There were no new messages for her or Sherlock for him on his voicemail. Dead ends. Too many. Made his hair want to stand on end. John was beside himself, a cool dread had begun to filter through his body; the sort only all too familiar.

“Greg, look, can I get a look at his place?” He refused to think of it as a crime scene, but he’d gone into house searches before, watched. “Maybe he... put a message. Somewhere. Desperate measures, yeah?”

“Well, his mobile has not yet been found. I didn’t really want to go through his things if- aw, come on John, you know he’ll be pissing if it’s all apple carts when he gets home from wherever the arse has fucked off to.”

He and Lestrade seemed to have at least relaxed around one another after the initial push and pull that anyone of similar rank goes through. John did agree with the estimation, but what else was there to do?

“We have to start somewhere. That would be at Baker Street. We’ll not toss it, you and I can do better than that. Maybe his landlady will be back and know where he’s gotten himself to. It’s miles better than being _inactive_ , sitting around waiting, in-case..."

“ _You_ don’t want to sit and be inactive, I get that, John but-” Greg sets him with a stern flat look “Look, if you are even half of what I think you were, your our best shot at the moment. Get you dressed, we’ll have a look round. Once we’re there though, you’re wearing a Tyvek suit-”


	5. Chapter 5

They stopped in the foyer and hung their coats as Lestrade handed him the still sealed Tyvek suit that he had grabbed from the boot.

“You do know that there is already trace in the flat?” John gave Lestrade a resigned look as he tore into it and flung it out with a soft pop to properly unfold. “I showered there and everything. You’re going to have to print me because he doesn’t clean; his landlady does. I’m sure I’m all over the bed-”

“Yes. I know.” Lestrade shook his head. “I’m glad he... found you but can we not discuss _that_ aspect yet? Give a bloke a chance to ignore it like a sensible Englishman.”

John just laughed under his breath as he moved and stretched his body into the suit. “I feel like a hobbit.”

The suit’s elastic at his ankle was covered by the crinkled faux-cloth folding over itself to cover the top half of his boot. The arms weren’t much better; tight at his upper arms and baggy in a hindering sort of way towards his wrists. Honestly, it was similar with his legs as well. Tyvek was not really made to be the most sensible, just to cover you for short term. Looking at his arms he sighed balefully and rolled the cuffs.  

“Feet aren’t big enough.” Lestrade teased. “Come on, mate. You want on the scene, you suit up. Protection and all that.”

“Just, tell me, you do know that I’m not going to hurt him.”

“Wouldn’t have you here if I thought so.”

They made their way up the seventeen steps to the closed door of Sherlock’s flat. It was odd, the non-hum that occurred when a place was truly empty of other people. John noticed it immediately, as he was sure that Lestrade did as well. It was more tactile than audible,  like the electric current in the room, just waiting for a spark to stir the life into the place once more. Books about where he remembered them, but a new scratch on the table that Sherlock was using for a desk in the parlor. Nothing tossed about. Just still. John went to Sherlock’s chair and dropped low, balancing on the balls of his feet.

“This is new,” John went to reach for the thing but then realised he didn’t have gloves on. Improvise. It’s what he had learned in the sand, was still useful here. Dropping his sleeve over his hand, he grasped the hilt and slowly pulled out the scimitar from beneath the chair, making sure to keep it on the ground. “Unless you’ve seen it?”

“Sherlock does have weaponry here, but I’ve never seen that, no.” Lestrade peered down at the unsheathed sword. “I’m pretty positive this isnt one of his. Not his style.” John watched as Lestrade carefully looked over the room again and peered over his shoulder following his stopped gaze towards the kitchen. “Hey now.” The detective went towards the doors while John stood on his own,  looking at the table and the floor.

“Definite struggle. Maybe his arms were pinned?” The contents of the table had been messily shoved off, but in a haphazard way, this table itself was just slightly off kilter as well. “Pushed against it? Or was- oh, clever man. I think he tried reaching for the methyl bromide which would have acted as an irritant. He was working with it last time I was over. Some sort of new way to use the powder form as a propellant... there was a joke about lost ninja tricks in there somewhere.”

John smiled at the half-memory.

“No, John,” Lestrade’s voice has gone dark. Imbued with anger. “This is new. Wasn’t like this a bit ago. Think someone-” There was a soft sound one flight up that had them both quiet. Lestrade nodded and continued. No point, whoever it was would be alerted if they stopped speaking now. “ -might have been through here... let’s check Himself’s room. Careful there not to disturb what’s on the floor.”

His eyes went up towards the third floor as he nodded again towards Lestrade and they made their way towards Sherlock’s room. He began planning an exit strategy for the D.I., hoping the man would listen. John was trained for this; God only knows if Lestrade had been. Thankfully, the door to the bedroom was partially open to begin with. Giving it a soft push found it whispering open.

“This is... for the mess in the kitchen... remarkably clean.” It was true; not a thing looked out of place. This had John’s nerves on edge. None of this was making sense. He looked towards the window in the room. He knew it would open, and that there was a serviceable fire escape. Point of exit for Lestrade, and hopefully himself as well. The shifting had gone quiet above them.

“Well, like I said mate, that wasn’t like that first time round. What would... I mean it was dark, maybe I missed it.” Lestrade negated the comment with a shake of his head as he spoke, his lips set in a grim line.

John slipped through the room and reached between the wall and the high-boy, motioning for Lestrade to watch the door. He smiled as his hand felt the waist-high sticks. Grabbing them both, he rapidly put one in each hand and twirled feeling the weight of them. Bit long for him, but more than serviceable. John made a mental note to teach Sherlock Escrima to bolster his Baritsu training. He’d feel better if the man had smaller implements that were easily hideable if kidnapping was to be on the menu. It had gone silent again upstairs.

It seemed Lestrade had the same idea that John had when they first entered the bedroom and moved to the side, close to the window and more out of sight. John pressed himself against the empty wall between the bath and the hall. Soon enough, faint footfalls could be heard. Taking a quiet breath, John held it and waited.

A small lithe body began its way into the room after a long pause in the hall. Whoever they were, they were clothed in black from head to foot. Completely covered. John struck out as soon as they were in the room far enough. Lestrade launched himself from the window and shut the bedroom door then blocked both exits. “Give it up!”

John circled the person, who was dramatically waving a length of silk about trying to capture and control, possibly remove, one of the walking sticks from play. They were certainly adept at dodging, much to John’s ire. “Come on you bastard! Either you’re going in or going down!”

“Where is Sherlock Holmes?” Lestrade bellowed at the person before his voice went deadly quiet. “He’s right you know. You’re not leaving here unassisted at any rate.”

“Where is the jade pin?” The voice under the cloth hissed back. “I will let you live if it is handed to me.”

“Jade pin?” John was genuinely befuddled at the request. “First off, _mate_ , I have no idea what you are on about. Second, if you’re _looking_ for Sherlock Holmes, you’re no use to me now. Lestrade! A little help. Please!.”

John allowed one of his sticks to be grabbed by the silk, which pulled him into range to knock the bastard square on his head with a smart rap of the other. He followed the man down, dropping the canes, and pinning the wiry body that was currently half-fighting him even though John was giving as good as he got. Lestrade finally got a hold of his wrists and ratcheted the steel bracelets tight against them while holding down the arseholes legs so as not to get kicked.

“You’ll not take me, _wángbā_!” The man beneath him began writhing in earnest.

“Fuck! He’s seizing! Move!” John carefully flipped the man over already knowing what he was going to see. Pulling down the mouth portion of the mask further he became livid. “You fucking _ghal_! Bloody arsed- no! Lestrade, 999. Now!”

The dying man grimaced a smile as bloody froth started to form at the edges of his mouth - the poison doing its business.

“FUCK!” John growled as he felt the man’s pulse flittering into oblivion. “Fuck! God damn it what the fuck is going on!” He stood then, the man dying was no longer his concern. As much as it pained him to ignore the soon-to-be-body, there was nothing he could do. Nor, really, was it his place. This man might possibly have murdered Sherlock in his sleep over some... pin? What in the fresh hell was that about? “Do you have _any_ idea what he was on about?”

Lestrade finished with dispatch and was busy texting as he spoke to John. “Not entirely... it _might_ be related to an ongoing investigation... not something I’m thrilled to have pop up right now. My second is coming in to help deal with this so we can continue on looking for the great git. She may not like him, but she understands there are damn sure times we need him.” Lestrade looked up from texting; John could feel his eyes on him before he spoke again. “What are you doing?”

“I’m phoning a friend.” John’s mouth was set in a grim line as he raised his mobile to his ear. “Yeah, I know, I need a trace on a mobile. I’m not certain if the email I have is associated with it or not... yeah, okay. Thanks. Yes, I owe you.”

He texted Sherlock’s number and known email to the number he called. It was a burner, he knew. That was fine, it was all fine if it meant the time lost here didn’t impact whether or not they found Sherlock safe.

_Please_ be safe. John closed his eyes at the thought, giving himself just a second of reprieve to feel, before tamping it all back down into a nice little controlled box.

“Really, John. Who was that... if it’s anything illegal- I’m not your mate. Don’t put me in a position to ask hard questions.”

“No, not your mate... I’m Sherlock’s. Friend. You don’t have clearance for half of what I do so don’t ask me because you won’t really like my answers.” John knelt again, looking over the body. “This arse was looking for something... had a suicide pill ready. Why?”

“Molly will tell me more after she’s had a look. Oh. Here they are now-”

John could hear multiple people coming up the stairwell. Nodded and stood back up. Squaring his shoulders, and altered his stance into something of his military persona. No time to dick around and measure metaphorical cocks. Especially with a life possibly in the balance.

“Get us out of here quickly if you can, Lestrade. I don’t like this, and I don’t think you do either.”

“Sally,” Lestrade gave the woman a curt nod. “This is John Watson, he’s here with me. That’s my Tyvek and his prints and hair might be through the flat. I’m not concerned about that. What I _am_ concerned with is that this arse- this possible thief/assassin was anywhere near Holmes. Means we might have a leak. Only trusted people on this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chemistry is fun, but do not bring toxic chemicals into an uncontrolled environment. 
> 
> Methyl bromide -One of the most widely used pesticides in the world. Used to kill fungus, microbes, and weeds in the soil prior to planting. Primarily for tomato, strawberry, and bell pepper crops. (Yes it can be deadly, as can all poisons. No touchy. Or playing with.)
> 
> I also have two words in foreign languages in this. As I do not speak Pashto or Mandarin, please forgive me if my google-fu led me astray.
> 
> wángbā- Son of a bitch (Chinese)
> 
> ghal- Thief (Pashto)
> 
> Escrima and Baritzu are different forms of martial arts. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience for this chapter. I've already started Chapter Six. I hope that it will be smooth sailing from here as far as updates go. 
> 
> As far as the comments and the bookmarks and kudos, well I never expected this response. It's touched me. Just wanted to let you know. 
> 
> Love and Light ~Diann


	6. Chapter 6

Sally nodded as Lestrade and she spoke from the exterior doorway. John was already waiting at Lestrade’s personal car. Thank God the man had a non-descript vehicle. A Volvo of all things. In silver. It did not draw attention and would be a good thing if it weren’t for the neighborhood they were about to enter. Once done with their chat, Lestrade headed straight for the car, fob in hand unlocking it for them both.

“Nice little chat there?” John quipped as he angled into the car. He was itching for his gun which did nothing to help his mood. “My point-of-contact has located his mobile. I’m not sure what to make of it though.”

“And what did your _contact_ give you?” Lestrade sounded skeptical.

John didn’t blame him. “We’re going to St. James. 10 Carlton House Terrace, to be specific.”

“Jesus-” Lestrade gave him a sharp stare. “Are you sure?”

“My contact is.” John leaned back and looked at Lestrade. “What’s there then? You act as if you-”

“Diogenes.”

“Come again?”

“It’s a club. Full of the most powerful men in England, bit shady if you ask me. Zero noise policy.” Lestrade shook his head as he drove. “I’ve been there courtesy of one such man before. It looks all above board, but, something- well you should understand, right?”

“Instincts?” John nodded more to himself than Lestrade. “Why would Sherlock’s mobile be in there?”

“Well, he is a member, but he rarely goes as it is. _Tedious_. Or at least himself states so.”

“So, he’s what, landed gentry?” This threw John for a loop and brought up a completely different reason for the possible disappearance. “What about ransom then? Or possible blackmail against whomever has the family’s seat in the “best club in Europe”?

“His brother is head of the family as his parents have retired to their county estate. Sherlock shows little to no interest in either politics or his brother’s machinations. They don’t have a close relationship, John.” Lestrade cleared his throat and coughed a bit before continuing. “Someone would really have to dig to understand that they are related to one another.”

John sat there a moment and thought it all through. “I don’t like it. Any of it.”

“Well you can not like it all you want, we are clearly heading into that territory. I want to know how the hell his mobile... I mean I suppose Mycroft could have him sequestered there, but their main home or even his own... unless he didn’t want to flaunt the familial ties...”

“So what you are saying is that Sherlock’s brother may have very well kidnapped his own sibling to... what? Keep him out of harms way? But surely he’d at least let Sherlock notify you. You’re a detective inspector for the Met. You work closely with Sherlock. Wouldn’t you notice him missing- oh. Wait. I had to call you.”

“Yeah, ta. Mate.” Lestrade sounded sullen. “I feel like shite about it, but with this damned case, well two concurrent cases actually, it’s all sixes and sevens innit?”

“I’m not saying you go out for pints, I’m just trying to understand; if I noticed, why didn’t you.”

“Sherlock, he has a habit of this. He’ll go off into his homeless network. For days sometimes. It’s how he keeps track of them, makes sure they’re fed. That their information is good. Look, Sherlock Holmes may not always be a good man, but one day, if we’re lucky, he’ll be a great one.”

John held his tongue. There was so much about Sherlock that he had learned in such a short space of time that he was almost disturbed that others didn’t see what he saw. True, Lestrade was coming close, but people like S.I. Donovan? It made John realise exactly why Sherlock had chosen to block himself off from contact with others. To build the barriers that John seemed to be able to sift through; that he was given permission to breach. When he found Sherlock, _when_ he sees him again, he would sit down with him and have a long chat. Preferably away from London and everyone involved in this fiasco.

“We’re here.” Lestrade sounded grim.

There was a faint golden glow from the translucently curtained windows that faced the street. A man in full suit came out to greet them as they exited the car. Welcome wagon already? It set John’s teeth on edge.

“Sirs. You will find a man that will see you to the appropriate rooms. I will have your vehicle dealt with.” Nodding congenially, the doorman saw to Lestrade’s keys and motioned for them to continue to the main door that stood open slicing the pre-dawn with a welcome warmth. “It is breakfast service, if you wish it first before your meeting. Good morning, sirs.”

Lestrade shrugged and handed over the fob before saying his thanks and heading into the building. What choice did John have but to follow. Once inside, their coats were taken and they were reminded of the Rule of Silence before being led to an antechamber with ten tables set about with either only one, or less often, two seats. Seating themselves at one of the tables set for two, they were immediately given a strong pot of tea and a small selection of pastries with jam and clotted cream in their own individual serving bowls instead of communal. They each also received small cards to check off any other selections that they wished for their morning repaste. It was enough that it set a whimsical smile to John’s lips before he remembered why they were there.

_When in Rome, John_.

He reminded himself as he sipped cautiously at the heavenly tea, unlike Lestrade, who had delved in as if this were an everyday occurrence. John would follow his lead as he seemed more knowledgeable of what John perceived as enemy territory. It helped that what was proffered was excellent, but the sooner they got this little ritual out of the way, the better. As he bit into a scone with a healthy bit of both condiments on it, they both turned as they heard the doors close to enclose the area.

“Gentleman, to what do I owe this early morning meeting?” A tall, perfectly attired, early middle aged man stopped close to their table. John swept his eyes over him, but the man himself did not seem at all familiar. His smile was smarmy. Set into snide congeniality. Given the current body language between the other two men, this was obviously, again, Lestrade’s territory.

“Mycroft.” Lestrade smiled tightly, then flashed his teeth. “Sherlock’s mobile was traced here. Got him under lock and key again?”

At this, the man, _Sherlock’s brother_ , John amended mentally, first was amused; then as reality set in on him, his smarminess worked itself into a blank veneer. _Oh, he’s good._

“Please state that again, Gregory, _surely_ you must jest.” The elder Holmes brother then carefully looked over John as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes roved with a clever fire behind them, just as Sherlock’s had done at their first meeting. “And, why are you here, Captain? It does seem odd, military man with an officer on _non-official_ business.”

“How did you- you know what, I don’t care how you knew. Sherlock Holmes’ mobile was traced to here. Perhaps it is here without your knowledge. If I know the sort of man that you are, this is at the very least disconcerting. Now, if you do know of it’s whereabouts, it would be a good thing to show us. He’s gone missing, and his flat was broken into, twice, that the detective and I are aware of. Signs of kidnapping, of sorts, with the first. The second very well could have meant his murder right then and there as the chap was very much so less then friendly. Unless you want to be charged with obstruction, I would help us if I were you.”

The elder Homes smiled then, turning his full attention onto John. “Well, as you so eloquently put it, I was unaware of my brother’s mobile device being here. Perhaps he took to one of the suites overnight, and as I just arrived at the club with non-members waiting, that message took priority.”

A quiet rap at one of the heavy pocket doors and then it slid open, allowing a perfectly attired young woman in. She made her way silently to Mycroft’s side and handed him a single sheaf of paper. It was too thick to read through to John’s ire. “Ah, yes. Gentlemen, I am sorry to have to cut your breakfast short, but I do believe you will want to see this. Please remember, silence through the main areas. Once we are down below, at the suites, we will be free to speak. Well, when I say free...”

Mycroft allowed his sentence to trail off and turned, pocketing the paper, and made his way towards the doors that the woman had come through, her just behind him, blackberry now in hand. John wondered if that was how the two of them got around the no-speaking in the common areas rule. Sort of ingenious if you kept the tapping to a minimum. they went through a series of hallways and rooms, ending at what looked like just another door in a succession of doors in a long hallway; more business oriented space. It would make sense, to have this available.

The door was opened by the woman, and the elder Holmes headed in, followed by Lestrade and John. It did seem like a den of sorts, but Mycroft made immediately for the bookcase and stroked one of the spines, then another. “Oh.”

The man shot John a pointed look before finishing the code.

The portion of bookcase that he had been standing at pushed inward, recessing itself into the wall, before sliding behind the bookcase to the right, revealing a well lit stairwell. “We don’t often use these suites, though they are highly defensible, most of us have our own ‘safe spaces’. They can be used by any member, at any time, for any reason. There was once that we had a certain gentleman here for the duration of his spouses... well. Anthea has checked, and Sherlock’s card was indeed used to access one of said suites. Could be that he is skulking about even now.”

“But you don’t think it’s likely.”

“To the point, Captain, no I do not, nor do I think it was my brother who accessed said suite. We are having all CTV re-routed and filtered as we speak. Security will pass on all pertinent information as it comes to them. It will give us a slightly disjointed picture at first, but visibility is still visibility.”

Lestrade hummed gruffly. “This isn’t like him, Mycroft.”

“Neither is our esteemable Captain. Oh, I am sorry, should I call you Doctor? Or John perhaps?”

“Doesn’t matter. You should know that seeing as you’d have to have pretty high clearance to even see my ‘rank’ as it were.” John smiled wickedly. “Also means you may or may not know, I’ve had bad days, and this is quickly shaping up to be one. Can we save the ‘you-break-my-brother’s-heart’ speech for another day. Intimidation is beneath men like us, don’t you think?”

“Action does send quite a better message, yes. Perhaps a match at a later date. You do fence?”

“Mycroft Holmes! Why in the hell are you talking toff sport when _Sherlock_ is missing?” Lestrade was becoming flustered and John could sympathise. He wasn’t much better off.

“Well, as it pleases you, Gregory.” The elder Holmes stopped in front of an opulent door that was deeply carved with a coat of arms. “We are here.” 


	7. Chapter 7

The door swung open to silence. John took his time looking into the space before actually crossing the threshold, and only after Holmes and Lestrade. “Lightwells? Built in to other parts and filtered down, yes? So some natural light. Coded doors. Bet there is steel in there, maybe titanium...” He knew he was thinking out loud, but it was quite a place. “Still, feels, untouched?”   
  
“When was the last time anyone was down here? Cleaning or otherwise.” It was Lestrade’s voice that John heard as he made his way deeper into the ‘suite’. Finding a door, he opened it, then cleared the room, office, before going to the next closed door further down. “Bedroom.”

In the middle of the bed sat Sherlock’s mobile. John would recognise it anywhere.

“Christ.”

“Gregory, may we please keep the Lord out of the equation?” Mycroft went to move towards the bed, but John put his arm out.

“No. I don’t think so. We don’t know _who_ or _why_ yet. This looks like a setup I saw, well it’s hardly relevant here, at least I hope. Still, best to wait. You said there was security on the premises? Exactly what type?”

“Well trained, I assure you.” There was that simpering smile again.

John wanted to punch it off the arseholes face. “Not necessarily loyal then?”

“The problem with having people under you is that they can be... persuaded by several means.”

“Ok, look. You two just... stand back. Preferably in the other room.” Cautiously looking around, John walked into the bedroom towards the bed, taking stock to see if anything looked even remotely out of place. It wasn’t as if he’d been here, but he assumed that there were an exacting perfection required for the job of keeping of these rooms. Just as he got close, the mobile screen lit up and chimed. “Are there cameras in here?”

“These rooms are supposed to be the absolute height of privacy.” He could hear the scowl in Mycroft’s voice. “No outside devices, except what you bring in personally, if you choose.”

“There could be a bloody bomb in here then for all we know.  _This_ could be the detonation device. Jesus... I’ve obviously tripped something-” He felt the familiar spike of adrenaline, the hairs on his body raise. “Out, you two. Now.”

“Come on, Mycroft.” Lestrade didn’t sound very happy either. “We need to get you to a safe distance, preferably out of the building.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. _If_   there is a bomb, the upper door will hold the damage to just downstairs. Now, this is my brother. If you do not pick that device up, Captain, I will.”

“You are just as much of a stubborn bastard as your brother, anyone told you that?” John moved at a snails pace until his hand was grasped around the mobile. It had chimed again, as some devices did. “Alright, opening the message.”

He readied himself for the worst. Swiping the face, he entered the passcode and looked at the picture that had been sent. “Boots. Combat. In the center of a room? Place looks... bare?”

John barely had the words out before the mobile rang in his hand.

 _Deep breath, Watson_.

Looking back at the men in the doorway, he put it to speaker and prayed what they heard on the other end would not be what his mind was ruthlessly telling him it would be as dark images spooled forth to gnaw at his heart.

 

“Hello?”   
  
_"Hello, Sexy. Retired from the continents and back home I see.” The voice of a male, undetermined age, shook on the other end of the call. "Though, it seems, not all things stay buried do they?”_

“Who the hell are you?” John’s mind quickly hopped tracks and began running down a list of who he’d served with that were one, back home; and two, still alive.

_"Now that would spoil the game. Twelve hours, to solve it. Or not. Goodbye.”_

 

“What the fresh hell is this, John?” Lestrade was fuming and coming into the bedroom straight towards John. “Tell me now, what the bloody-”

“Gregory, please. Let’s not bring the Captain on edge anymore then he obviously is. The man needs to think at this moment, and while I am sure he performs admirably under pressure, this is my brother’s life possibly on the line. John, may I?”

He was focused on the picture, trying to glean any bit of information he could. “I’ll need that back.”

“Obviously, I just want to ascertain whether or not this is truly my brother’s mobile.” Mycroft looked the device over carefully, his expression becoming more hard with each passing moment. Flicking through the apps, he came to one that was passworded. Then hesitated. “This could just be a clone, but I am afraid that it is not. I do not want to try to open the app and have the mobile destroyed if it has been reset, or perhaps set as a kill switch for the device.”

“You need to sit.” Holmes was looking a bit peaked and all he needed was for him to pass out. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with possible hostage situations before, we’ll go up, get something a wee bit stronger than our morning tea, and figure out where the hell these boots are and get Sherlock back.”

Once they were all back up in Mycroft’s office, the suite once again sealed off. Anthea, Mycroft’s P.A. he had learned, had pulled a decanter of scotch and two tumblers from the hutch and a tray with fresh tea delivered as well. How they knew John would prefer to have that over the alcohol was anyone’s guess. It was interesting, watching the two together. John wondered if she were more, possibly bodyguard as well. Would be easily overlooked by most being a woman. He knew better. Thanking her, he fixed himself a cuppa, ignoring polite standards that would normally have Mycroft serve his guest. This was not a time to stand on formalities.

“Do you recoginse them?” That was the first question since they’d all come back up.

“Yes, I do. I believe. It’s hard, but you know how you can just recognise something that is yours out of a bunch of them? Same is for your mates, if you’re in close quarters. I need to see them, to make sure. Not going to give false hope if I’m wrong.” He took a sip of the piping hot earl grey letting the steam fill his lungs before speaking again. “Do either of you know the room? There... I honestly don’t have a clue.”

“Wherever it is is old, bit rundown. Wait, is that a hobby horse rocker? In the edge there?” Lestrade’s eyes lit up in memory. “By God, I think I know where this is. I’m just about positive. But... how? It. The place is condemned, well the insides need gutting. Most of it. Sad too, cause that old lady is a beaut really. There was a series of suicides, you might remember, she was the final victim. Never got the perp. Sherlock was quite angry about that.”

“So... unsolved or?”

“No, I still think he had it right, but the guy just... disappeared? Wife was estranged, newly remarried, had no clue. Dead ends all around unfortunately.”

“But you think you know where this is?” John finished his tea in one go and stood. “We have approximately... ten hours then once we get there? Depending on where it is?”

“Brixton, by way of St. Matthew’s. That was ages ago though. Hard to believe it’s still in the same state.”

“One way to find out. Lord Holmes, when you are ready?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the title, rolling his eyes for good measure. “Come, John, you’re practically family. Happy announcement by the end of the week? Mycroft will suffice.”

“Yes, I’m sure your brother will be thrilled to accept my proposal.”

“Gents, we can argue over custody of Sherlock later, after he’s back with us.” Lestrade was texting rapidly. “I have someone I trust securing the house for us. We’re taking one of yours, Mycroft?”

“Of course. Please, see yourself to the door, Anthea will be with you shortly. I have a matter I need to attend to and then we will leave.”

John and Lestrade opened the office door and were met by Anthea. She guided them back to the front entry and had their coats retrieved for them just as Mycroft came up behind him, coat already on. He spoke with her in hushed tones before he smiled thinly and walked through the open front door, thanking the doorman for his diligence as the black saloon pulled up to the curb.

Exiting quickly, the driver made his way around and opened the door. “Charlemagne.”

“Very good.” Holmes gave a curt nod of recognition to the man before seating himself, rearranging his brolly to sit against the far side of the seat he had taken as John and then Lestrade got settled as well. “Brixton, Mervan by St. Matthew’s. Quickest route. Thank you.”

With that, Mycroft depressed a button on the console and the privacy glass was raised.

“Tell me honestly, John, do you think you have a chance of solving this? There is no loss of pride in admitting you are in over your head.”

“All I know is that once I’m there, and if I need help, I will ask. If you are half as clever as your younger brother, I am sure you will be very helpful in finding him. Maybe even instrumental as he is when he works with Lestrade.”

“Captain, I assure you, out of the two of us, my intellect is greater as I do not ‘delete’ items as Sherlock is wont to do. Now,” Mycroft looked to Lestrade, “who do you have there. At this house.”

“Anderson and Dimmock. Both begrudgingly accept Sherlock’s work even though Anderson can be quite snide with him; It is Sherlock. He’s antagonistic. Really I think the both have a bit of hero worship. Anderson also has the added advantage of having the original notes, as he was there that night.”

“Good, that is good, isn’t it Captain?”

“You know, Holmes, you can stop that at any time. I am not a toy. I do not like being played with. We are all men of action here, are we not? Now, where are the handguns for Lestrade and I. I assume that is what you were getting. Places like that... secret cubbies. All sorts isn’t it. You know I’ve heard of a certain sect of men who-”

“I am sure you have given your clearance level, and yes, there are... weapons to arm yourselves with. By end of day, you John, will have paperwork to go along with yours. I am sure you are knowledgeable about this procedure. Now let me show you what I know.”

Mycroft showed them the CCTV footage on a digital tablet. One by one, the cameras experienced interference without completely blinking out, then coming back after only a second or so. It looked highly co-ordinate. The trail ended at a back entrance to the club. Then nothing. Again, it was switched to interior, Mycroft speeding it up just enough to show that as far as all of the cameras in that particular section were concerned, not one person stepped a toe towards Mycroft’s office.

“All of the other interior cameras have been scanned and nothing as far as we can tell. Anthea and Geoff are taking them to be analysed for tampering.”

Lestrade hummed in acknowledgement as John watched the footage a few more times. “Do you think they maybe knew all of the hidden passages? Would they be able to get from the exterior into that room that way? It was pristeen, not even dust to track moment... are you sure this wasn’t an inside job?”

“Not by my people, no.” Holmes face had gone dower. “But I have made a few inquiries. I hope to have more traction on the situation by lunch.”

John noticed they cruised smoothly through the heart of London, rarely stopping for a light, if at all come to think on it. Holmes must love using the power that he had to make things just that much smoother in his life. John was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth either. If his ease meant their expediency, then so be it. He allowed his mind to wander. Never too close to thoughts of the curly haired detective he was slowly ‘deflowering’, as the man himself had put it, but not exactly far from either. As he watched the cityscape flow past his window, he found himself praying that at the end of all this, for Sherlock to be still mentally capable and alive. Any other way would mean destruction to the one who had set up this little game to begin with.

“John, hey, we’re here.” Lestrade tapped him kindly on the shoulder. John wondered if his thoughts were that obvious. “Come on, let’s get you two in off the street so the car can make itself scarce. No point in worrying grannies with twitching curtains and the Met on speed dial.”

“We certainly do not need that. Or the press. I get it. Come on then, lead the way.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Anderson, this is John. John, this is Phillip Anderson. He’s our resident forensic expert; works directly with me. Dimmock is upstairs. God, why hasn’t this place... I dunno... been purchased? Reno'd?”

“Death will do it, Greg. Too many superstitious people out there.” Anderson seemed like an alright sort. Like he tried to keep it professional. John could respect that. “So what has Sherlock gotten himself into this time?”

“Something he can’t get out of on his own.” John was blunt about it. “You found the boots? Haven’t moved them, right?”

“Yes and no, Greg told me not to. Gave me a little rundown. You some sort of specialist?” Phillip smiled weakly. “As much as Sherlock is an arse, I really would not like to... well.”

“We all feel that way I think. Let’s hope for the best, shall we.” John smiled his friendly smile and started up the stairs after Lestrade. He realised Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Damn intel-spook arse-headed... just watch him pop out of the closet upstairs like the boogety man. Or jack-in-the-box. No thank you. “So this is Dimmock?” He brought himself back to the here and now. “Thank you for securing the scene. Do you... smell that?”

_Gunpowder_.

He’d know the scent anywhere. Recently discharged. “Oh my God.” What met them was a lurid copy of a smiley face that had been shot into the walls. “Lestrade, please tell me you have a camera. Anderson? You have to have-”

“Let me go downstairs and get it; just a tick.” Anderson ran nimbly down the stairs, his footfalls echoing the further down to ground level he got.

“This is some ‘Watchman’ level bollocks. Some level of insane I’ve not seen.” As John said it he realised that was both at once true and untrue.

Lestrade walked with him to the boots, albeit a bit more warily. “Every story needs a villain, John.”

“Sure he’s not in a black saloon with eyes everywhere?”

“Mycroft? No, he’d not play games like this. He’d tell you to kiss your arse and then have it dealt with I think. I told you, he’s very careful where Sherlock is concerned.”

John crouched down while pulling gloves from his pocket. “These, they shouldn’t be here. Him... he’s giving off a level of wrong I don’t like. Then there is... that.” He waves towards the wall while not taking his eyes from the boots as he looks for anything that might be out of place on them. “You want to tell me this is your normal day at the office? What in the hell are _these_ doing _here_?”

“Want to tell me about them.” It wasn’t really a question.

“I do believe, see here... yes. On the inside of the right boot in white paint pen. J. Sholto. Other one his disc information. Some of the guys did it in case... well just in case. He, there was a complication one morning during patrols. But, there’s something not quite _right_ about them you know. And what the hell does that even have to do with anything?”

“You knew the guy?”

“Yeah, yeah I did. Um. Do.” John swallowed hard and fought against the urgency that began pulling at his chest. “He’s... in seclusion. Not very sociable.”

“So what are his boots doing here then? You weren’t even- involved then.” Lestrade moved as Anderson came back into the room and began taking pictures of everything. Leaning against the doorway, he cooly appraised John. “I need all you can give me. We have about five minutes here before the neighbors get interested.”

“I can’t really tell you much more other than what was in the papers. The rest is classified to protect him. It was genuinely an accident, what happened. Faulty intel was blamed. Some people blamed him. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was.” John felt his voice slip. He blew a breath out and collected himself. “I treated some of them. Tried to... it was a mess. Later, even though it was proven to not be his error, the media had vilified him. He was a good man... is a good man.”

“We’ll dig into the cold case files for this woman, see if there is a connection. This all feels... wrong. Come on, let’s bag those and get out of here. Anderson, forward those to me through private channels for now. I’m sure a courier will be by for hard copies and that cold case, maybe the whole ‘Suicides’ case. Be prepared for anything.”

They all left, John carrying the boots, not willing to relinquish them. He couldn’t help but let his mind spool out, trying to grasp the enormity of what was going on. Mycroft’s car came to a smooth stop at the curb. He didn’t feel like waiting for the driver so he opened the door himself, sliding in without a word to Mycroft. Lestrade joined them a moment later.

“Phillip will have whatever we need ready when your courier gets there.” Lestrade sat beside Mycroft this time, his voice subdued. “I don’t know, Mycroft. Do you think he’s- I mean you _know_ his mouth.”

“Gregory, I’m sure my brother is as well as he can be. He has had training. They wouldn’t seriously injure him as they have a long game obviously planned. You know I’m not allowed to negotiate with terrorists.”

“Terrorists? What _exactly_ do you mean, terrorists?” The word had acted like a punch to the gut. “He couldn’t... no. I won’t believe it.”

“John, you are involved. The first clue you were given hints that it may indeed have ties back to your service, you have to see that. Accept it.”

“How much can I say in front of him?” John sighed, resolved himself. “I’ll need to speak plainly and I refuse, absolutely refuse to compromise James. Is that understood?”

“John, I won’t. I would never-”

“But I don’t know you, do I _Gregory_? Holmes here, I understand men like him. Know how bound he actually is and what he most likely already know. You? You’re a civilian, just like Sherlock. What would happen if you were taken? How compromised would we be? How much torture can you endure before you-”

“Enough.” Mycroft’s voice was calm, but the word was weighty. “John, Gregory has a detail. He will be with me from this point on, at my home. You are welcome there as well. Centralised with a constant flow of information at our fingers. I believe you want to help my brother. I find that admirable, a compliment I do not readily give. Now, let’s get back on task, shall we?”

“Yes. Fine. Just, I’m not sorry. I know how these things go most often. This is only about him. Not you, not Lestrade. I will get to him before a hair on his head is harmed. Don’t stand in my way.”

 

*

 

Hours. It had been hours. Four to be exact... well that wasn’t true either. Fuck. John’s mind was overloaded with more questions than answers and he was about to lose it. He needed a heavy bag, somewhere to pound it out while he processed everything they'd learned. Maybe a run instead; Mycroft had a treadmill after all.

The boots were indeed Sholto’s. The reason they looked odd to John is that they were a pair the man had rarely worn, giving the wear and tear patterning. They looked a bit short too, which was odd. Closer to his size than his old commanders. The ‘suicide’ was a woman who had been in the media. She had been in London, but belonged in Cardiff. It was never understood why. She had sited work to her husband, but the local station had not sent her so it had quickly become a dead end. Sherlock had been working the case, found _her_ case, through his homeless network, but it had already been gone through, most likely by the murderer. At least that is what Sherlock’s fine scrawl had stated. Also, that she had most likely been in London because she was having an affair. Speculation, but John saw the point. Possible.

But it hadn’t proved the link.

She had looked familiar, though he hadn’t recognised the name. ( ). No bells there. James... maybe through James.

He changed quickly into running clothes and hit the treadmill after texting the other two that they could have lunch on their own, he needed a run and a think.

 

James.

 

Jennifer.

 

Wilson.

 

Who had been in Sholto’s company at the time? Was she... he mentally calculated her age and the age of her children. Two boys. Younger. But married for... well it was possible. Maybe previous marriage or on her own prior to-

“Oh my god.”

John wasted no time hopping of the treadmill, shutting it down quickly as he ran out of the room and down the long hallway to make a sharp few turns finally ending up in the kitchen. “I know the link. Now I need to prove it.”


	9. Chapter 9

**_To: Safeashouses_ **

**_From: Thesecond_ **

  _Watson, J.H. Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers._

_Project Mayhem:_

_Second in Command; Physician on Hand._

_Captain Watson proved exemplary in all facets._

 

_Project Bustle:_

_Second in Command; Long Range Works._

_Captain Watson proved exemplary in all facets._

_Might be better suited to such work at a later date._

 

_-Captain Watson’s surgical skill is well known by many. He is execrable without his tea, keeps much of himself private while making those around him feel they know him well. Might be suited for secondary or tertiary assignment now that he is on home soil._

 

 

**_To: Thesecond_ **

**_From: Safeashouses_ **

_Keep Seven aware of the situation._

 

 

**_To: Safeashouses_ **

**_From: Thesecond_ **

  _B_ _ring him into the Loop. It’s time._

 

“Say that again?” Lestrade looked incredulous. “Now hang on-”

“Jennifer Wilson had an older son, stationed with us, went out with Sholto. Might have been having relations with him, rank withstanding.” John stated for the second time. “Look, it’s just a feeling, but I do know that he was with someone then."

“John, look, that sounds-”

“Damn it, Lestrade. I know. At least I’m certain enough to follow the lead. We’ve had nothing.” He was becoming even more exasperated and could feel time slipping away from them. “The boots. They aren’t his. I think they were just... a bridge.. you know. Between.” John’s hands were in his shortly cropped hair, pulling it roughly before dropping restless to his sides. “I recognise her from somewhere. Not like I’ve seen her in the bloody paper either. I thought so at the time, when the story was run, but it wasn’t possible because I had only just gotten back.”

“John, it is very possible that you just might be on to something, but we have others working as well to solve the issue. We must if we are to get Sherlock back in a timely manner.” Mycroft fiddled with the teacup in its saucer as if weighing both the situation and John himself. He was growing used to this sort of delay tactic from Holmes; what did that say about him? “I have something I would like to show you. Gregory, would you please tell Anthea to begin the search. It can’t hurt the situation.”

Mycroft stood then, John noticed that his fingers gave the barest of brushes against Lestrade’s before he righted his waistcoat and motioned for John to join him. “This way. It will be better to discuss things in my study.”

The ‘study’ took up a large room on the ground floor not far from the stairs. If you blinked, you might miss the door, which is perhaps why the room was chosen to begin with. It might be the exact same space that John would have chosen had this been his home.

“Nice this. So, why the relocation?”

John stood just inside the door, taking in the walls lined ceiling to floor with books; welcoming aged leather chairs and sofas were scattered about the room in a planned-to-seem haphazard way. There was even a reading nook. The desk took prominence, as it should being a place of work more than leisure he supposed; the heavy ornate woodwork made it a thing of well polished beauty. A fire was cheerily crackling in the overly large fireplace. It seemed so hospitable, and yet just off enough that it was setting John’s teeth on edge.

“We need to speak plainly and Gregory does not have the clearance yet for it. I am sure you understand the... delicacy... of such matters. The line we must tread as the men that we are?”

“And what sort of man would that be?” John half-smiled, amazed that Holmes assumed to know him so well. “Queen and Country sort, is that it?”

“We are men of action, John. Lies do not become us, yet we must use them as the tools that they are in these modern times. One of the easiest lies is with our choice of dress, wouldn’t you agree? How calm and quaint you are in that soft jumper and American denim. Smallish. Tell me, did my brother ever have a chance to see you? Did he know what you are?”

John licked his lip and chuckled mirthlessly. “Look, your brother is _safe_ with me, this... this _madman_ that has him, he’s the one we should be focused on. We don’t have time for this little melodrama.”

“Oh, you are mistaken, this is not a _melodrama_ , as you so quaintly put it. This is an invitation to knowledge so that you may feel more at ease when the time comes. Your left hand. Not a tremor for any of this. I would dare to say it’s been gone for some time hasn’t it? Tell me John, do you see London as you saw every other urban landscape you’ve been dropped into? Do you miss the battlefield enough to do anything you must to get him back?”

He weighed Mycroft with a set look of disapproval back. “Do you think I wouldn’t?”

“What is he to you? After you are both reunited, should we expect a happy announcement?” Mycroft cut back quickly. “I am a pragmatist, John. My brother, when you see him next, may be quite influenceable emotionally. I need to know where your loyalties lie.”

“At the end of the day? Of all of this?” John twitched a small sad smile. “With him. Funny isn’t it? It’s none of your damn business, at all, but it is with him.”

“Do you know, that when we were children, Sherlock wanted to be a pirate?” Mycroft worked his way over to the glass fronted cabinet that was inset with some of the bookcase by his desk. “But I get ahead of myself, at first, when he was _very_ young, he wanted to be a knight.” Pulling out a decanter he set it on the side board, then two tumblers. “He was enthralled with Arthurian lore, thanks to my father of course.”   

Mycroft took the items to a small table between two of the chairs by the fire and motioned for John to sit. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to, wasn’t sure where all this was going when time was slipping past them at a much faster rate than he wished. Every second felt frivolously wasted but he had already learned that with Holmes, things were often done at the pace he set while in his ‘domain’.

“How, exactly, is any of this relevant?” John accepted the golden liquid and sat down. The fire did soothe the ache in his body some, the scotch would even more so, but he needed to be alert, not drowsy with drink. “I don’t see-”

“My father was a Kingsman. A word I am sure you have heard in passing at some point towards the end of your tenure in Her Majesty's service. I, of course, was being educated to join the service which accelerated at his demise.”

“And this little family history has to do with all of this how?”

“Impatience is not a virtue at this moment, John.” Mycroft looked into his scotch turning the tumbler as he continued. “Sherlock was still just a child, so very small, and so very unsure even with his intellect and innate insight, something I was sure was honed if nothing else. You see, I was already away. I asked for particular private tutors for him as my father had done for me. It wasn’t that my mother wasn’t involved; quite to the contrary, but she was in deep mourning. Sherlock withdrew and saw my actions as abandonment. It could not have been any other way. He immersed himself once again in the legends, dreamed of Avalon and the Lady of the Lake. Merlin was his most favourite which turned into his love of chemistry later on even if he may deny it now. It was only as he grew that he realised the Laws that pertained to Knights were too rigid, that was when he turned to piracy. He was ten by this time.”

“But he still... so he received some of the same training as-”

“All of the same until he was given a choice. It was not _palatable_ for him, so he chose Cambridge instead. I often wonder if he would have done well... but that is neither here nor there. This way he has been relatively out of the public eye; almost forgotten except the occasional social column. I believe he prefers it this way. Which is why it makes this so unfortunate.” Mycroft’s face went flat for a moment, with almost an air of irritation. "Apologies.”

Mycroft  fished in his pocket, removing his mobile and looked at something for a few moments before placing it back once again. He took a deep drink of his scotch, before placing the tumbler down on the table. John could feel the same build up of frenetic energy as he had witnessed with Sherlock, but there was no real obvious sign of such coming off of Holmes. He marked it up to a Holmesian trate before decided to still hold off as much as he wanted to down the damned thing. If Big Brother was pulling a stormer, John wanted to be ready to move in an instant with all his faculties in tact.

“Bollocks.” John’s voice was subdued. He decided to try to push forward even as Holmes’ hands met his lips in a way that was becoming familiar to him. It made him crack a brittle smile before sobering.  “You do know that I am right then. If you know... my specialties. Training. You know I’ve been taught to observe. Maybe not as keenly as the two of you, but I can state with certainty that I’m right. At least about James and the young man. His mother.”

“What if I told you that the young man hadn’t always been designated as male.”


	10. Chapter 10

From there, things moved swiftly. John contacted James directly and confirmed the intel that Holmes had received. It was at hour six, just after he’d rung off that the mobile John had on him chimed and set everyone on edge momentarily before he looked at the message.

_Must not miss him as much as you’ve been missed. Four hours.Tick **Talk**.Tick  **Talk**. It has been so very long since you have updated your blog. **xx**_

“They mean you to go public with this information, don’t they?. Why ruin a man who is already nearly ruined?” Lestrade poured himself and John a coffee, black as treacle, before heading back to the nook in the kitchen that they had taken over. “This Sholto, he’s got his staff, maybe a couple of people he stays in contact with, but never socialises. No pub nights with the lads. Just him. At his home. Can’t even make it to a family do or a wedding, I’d wager. Certain death is around the corner. Sounds like prison already.”

John listened to him, fighting back the edge of worry that tried to intrude his thoughts. He longed to snap at Greg, who seemed to go one and on, but he kept his temper. “We also know that James is being watched.” He reminded Lestrade. “It’s all pointing that way; the timing is too close.”

“Could be a coincidence? I mean this person is completely mad-”

Mycroft came back in from the hall, bringing in yet another file. “Sholto’s staff, lay out of the grounds; surveillance. Seems that his staff is all female, and all live on-site, though two live in a small guest house while the others live in the original staff quarters in the manor itself. There are a total of six. Now that we have the link between Sherlock’s Pink Lady and Sholto’s young lover, it is a link to you as well. Two out of a family of five dead. One murdered-”

“Two technically. Wilson’s son was killed in an ambush that was not supposed to be there-”

“Yes, of that I am aware as well. Getting the paperwork for that particular incident has been...   _difficult_.” Holmes stopped on the word as if it had soured in his mouth. Difficult wasn’t an inconvenience he was adjusted to in the least. They didn’t have _time_ for difficult. “The person wanted you to be aware of the link between your ex-commander with who you had a passing dalliance yourself, and Sherlock your newest lover, for better lack of a term-”

“But why play this sort of game?” John’s voice betrayed his stress. He knew the answer before he’d even finished the question.

“Jealousy.” Lestrade piped up again. “Most often it’s that, or pining that’s gone wrong. Twisted the person.”

“Even then, what do they want? I’ll put the post on the blog, fine. But that still gets us _no_ closer to Sherlock. Unless we can figure out who on Sholto’s staff is leaking information, we still have nothing to go on.”

“Nothing?” Holmes cocked an eyebrow, and his look practically shouted _Think_. “The universe is rarely so lazy as to offer us coincidences. Something Sherlock knows well, and it would serve you, to remember it.”

“You think the plant is the person responsible?” John’s blood ran cold in his veins.

“You tell me, John. Let’s look at the women who care for your friend, shall we?” Mycroft looked at his pocketwatch. “We have roughly thirty minutes before you need to compose the post. Let’s not waste it.”

Lestrade grabbed the file and fanned out each dossier. Each of the six women had their pictures paperclipped to the  exterior of their particular sheafs of paper, pertinent data typed out under the photos.

 

**Candidate 1:**

Arya, Gail M.; F, India, 30/09/1981. 5’7”, brunette, brown eyes. Average build. Single.

Gardener. Two Years. Confidentiality agreement signed. Lives in Guesthouse.

Pay scale: Average. Stipend at Christmas. Mother in Cardiff.

 

**Candidate 2:**

Wright, Charlotte A.; F, Ireland, 24/06/1983. 5’5”, ginger, hazel blue eyes. Under Average Build. Single.

Cook. Five Years. Confidentiality agreement signed. Lives in Manor.

Payscale: Average. Stipend at Christmas. Two weeks a year in France.

 

**Candidate 3:**

Bryant, Tess O.; F, England, 22/11/1976. 5'6”, brunette, hazel eyes. Normal build. Single.

Nurse. Five Years. Confidentiality agreement signed. Lives in Manor.

Payscale: Above Average. Stipend at Christmas. Aunt in Bristol.

 

**Candidate 4:**

Morstan, Mary S.D.; F, England,13/01/1974. 5’5”, blonde, blue eyes. Normal build. Single.

Personal Assistant. Two Years. Confidentiality agreement signed. Lives in Manor.

Payscale: Average. Stipend at Christmas. Given leave to travel in Major’s stead.

 

**Candidate 5:**

Collins, Robyn M.; Spain, 15/12/1981. 5’7”, brunette, brown eyes. Average build. Single.

Security. Four Years. Confidentiality agreement signed. Lives in Manor.

Payscale; Average. Stipend at Christmas. Travels with Major.

 

**Candidate 6:**

Evans, Victoria T.; England, 19/07/1977. 5’4”, blonde, brown eyes. Average build. Single.

Maid. Four Years. Confidentiality agreement signed. Lives in Guesthouse.

Payscale; Average.  Stipend at Christmas. Strongly prefers Vicki.

 

“Wait. So all of these women, only two with living relatives?”

“Well that is a pattern, after a sort then, isn’t it? The other two only have one.” Lestrade quickly flipped through the both of them, reading the pertinent information. “Both homed. This does seem more of the nothing-left-to-lose sort of category of crime.” He pulled the two away from the stack, moving them to the right side of the desk and straightening the remaining four. “What about the nurse? Ring any bells?”

John thought a moment. So many he’d served with, but she was private sector, never enlisted. “No, don’t recognise her, sorry. Besides her and... Charlotte have been with him since he was first home. I never have seen any of his staff when I have visited, so I’ll not be a lot of help personality wise. Well, um, the others have been with him for just as long-”

“Wrong. Both Ms. Arya as well as Ms. Morstan have been with him the least amount of time. Two years.” Mycroft’s finger tapped each portfolio. “Both had family in the military. Ms. Arya’s is an great-uncle and one cousin, both passed on. Ms. Morstan lost her father at the age of...” He quickly shuffled through her various pages until he landed on what he was looking for. “...two. She was two. Both parents by five. Was homed then, and taken care of until following into adulthood, she became a nurse.”

“Here,” Lestrade pushed a letter forward he’d pulled from the slightly scattered bunch. “She had questions with her licensing- odd. It doesn’t say why. Looks like she chose not to go through the legal paperwork to fix it, whatever the problem was, and began looking for a different position? The training would look good on her C.V. for Sholto, I think. He’s got a need for frequent medical care?”

“Constant, unfortunately.” John paused for a breath to contain the anger at the damnable injuries that had taken Sholto from service. It had nearly killed the man. The sight of his... of James coming in off of the helivac- He stopped the thought there before it went into worse territory. Sherlock flitted across his thoughts then. What he would do if- No.  “I do know that all of his staff does receive basic medical training.” John continued with a slight grimace. “If she is around him most of the time, he would see it as an almost perfect match. A way to give his practical nurse a break without compromising his care. He’s thoughtful like that.” John looked at the photograph and bit at his lip, something niggling in the back of his brain. “Are there any better shots of her?”

Lestrade took a drink of his forlorn coffee. “Recognise her, then?”

“Does it say in there somewhere... why would she change her name?” John knows he is speaking more to himself than to Holmes or Lestrade. “Maybe to cover the trail she might have left...”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft leaned in to get a closer look at the the photo of the softly curled blonde hair that haloed the woman’s face.

John looked again, biting his lip as he did so. He tried to recall the young nurse’s sweet face. Her wavy ginger hair and grey green eyes could be changed easy, a nose job would account for the remaining difference. The smile seemed right, crooked up more to her right than her left, mischievous and sweet all at once.  “If it is…”

“John? Speak plainly, please.”

“If I’m right, her name is Amelie. She’s an orphan, I remember that much. Jesus.” John thought back to that fateful meeting. It was like any other. He was on loan for Medecins Sans Frontieres those six weeks. Every eighteen months or so. To the soft voice that turned slightly husky when touched just right. The soft sighs of their quick meetings. There was never time for more than a quick one-off here or there, but it had been lovely.  “Jesus. No. Holmes, we _have_ to find out if I’m correct.”

It could just be a horrible, mad joke, he hoped. Could be someone else, really Ms. Morstan, but if it wasn’t...maybe she was running from him.

“You don’t understand. Amelie. The woman who I think Ms. Morstan is, she- I met her twice. While I was in Iraq. The first time was a bit of fun, nothing serious. No time for anything really. But I got to know her. Thought I did. Eighteen months later-”

“This is your time with Medecins-” Holmes interjected.

“Yes, yea, it is.” He nodded. “I see her again eighteen months later and, she’s, well different. No one seemed to really notice but me. We fell into the same habits, but nothing as... risque as before. She finally broke down one night. I thought it had to do with the birth we’d just assisted with. It was difficult for the mother and the child, but both had made it. She told me about him.”

Lestrade put his hands on the table and looked John in the eyes. “Who? Who’s he?”

“Never found out. Look, that’s not important. What is, is this. A few nights later, we were being housed in a compound. Quiet. We were so happy for it. She went missing. I went to go talk to her- she wasn’t there. I decided to look before acting hastily.” John could feel the damp heat of the short humid nights against his skin as he spoke. Taste the jasmine that grew along the walls. “Um, she, Amelie, was with someone, but-  with a mission there is a... calmness that overcomes you. It was the same for her. The look of detachment. I thought she never saw me. Must have been wrong.”

“John, hey, look, Mycroft’ll have Anthea look into it.” John had walked away from the table, his body tensing under the weight; the strain. A familiar feeling, but wrong here at home. The ‘soothing’ tone that imbued Lestrade’s voice did nothing of the sort, only set his teeth further on edge. He glanced over his shoulder, noticing Holmes was on his mobile. It didn’t make him feel any better. “This is Sherlock. The mad bastard will be okay-”

“No. No it’s not.” He heard the shatter of the ceramic against the island counter before he’d even registered what he’d done. “It’s _not_ _okay_! That- woman.” If. He prayed to God that it wasn’t Amelie. That somehow he was wrong. “This is not good, Lestrade. Why the fuck is _she_ with _him_? Why didn’t he see it was her?” John flexed his left hand, phantom pain shooting down as he did so. He knew he had to rein in the frustration that was about to bubble over before he did damage that couldn’t be easily sorted. “Sod this. I need my laptop. I have a post to write.”

 

**jhw@Johnwatsonblog.co.uk**

1 **New Post** 0 **Comments**

 

**_Life Goes On_**

_It’s been ages since I’ve posted, sorry for that. Everyone knows how quiet my life is though; not like anyone wants to hear me go on about runs to Tesco and how many times I’ve gotten sick on me this week in one of the clinics I rota at._

_Funny thing, life. Met up with an old mate. Heard his mum was well. Too bad it ended abruptly with his S.O. though. I feel for them; I know loss, too, of that sort. I hope to never experience it again._

_Anyways, cheers to you all. Hope everyone is well._

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song is one of my very favourites. It felt so right to listen to it while finishing this chapter out. Lyrics in the End Notes.  
> [Árstíðir – Heiðin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aRigSIntPMU)

 

 

 

There was a space. A white-out moment where only he existed. But only peripherally. His lungs expanded. Contracted. His fist clenched the rhythmic way it always did. Habit. Opening his eyes, John looked at the screen of the mobile.

 

1 **New Message**

 

John swiped at the screen opening the text.

 

_Glad to **hear** from you. So is Sherlock_.

 

Thank Christ. Alright, she’d seen it. Buggering fuck. Okay. John sat hard, his legs going out from under him. Thank god he was in private in the office. He was sure that Holmes had most likely been notified that he’d received some signs of life and would be swanning in at any second, but this, _this_ right now, was his time. When the mobile rang he wiped away the errant tear he’d felt on his cheek as he answered.

“Hello.”

“Oh, thank god, can you come? Please... There are wires-”

“Hang on, hang on, nothing more than the address. There is a Detective here, hold on, they are coming to help you.”

John handed the mobile over to Lestrade before making his way out the office directly across the hall to the loo. Locking himself in, he ran the tap in the sink, leaning heavily against it before giving into his leg and sliding to the ground.

He had thought it might have been Sherlock on the other end, just for a split second.

He also knew better than to think that.

Damn it, this was about to get complicated. John hated complicated. It becomes messy and not in any sort of enjoyable way. Closing his eyes, he let his head dangle close to his pulled up knees and just breathed. Sherlock. Safe. Warm. Whole. He had to focus on that, nothing else. He knew the injuries, the _damage_ that could occur to a body when under extreme duress coupled with physical damage. He willfully ignored the psychological damage for now. Holmes had said that Sherlock had training. He knew how strong mentally he was. How much Sherlock was willing to bend and when he would not. It wouldn’t be long. They had a good idea of who was behind it all. John hated putting everything into one lead, but _hell_ , if it didn’t seem logical. They shouldn’t have been able to have that information. Maybe she was counting on that.

The rap at the door pulled him from his thoughts. “John, it’s Lestrade.”

“Yeah?” His voice sounded rough, even to him. “I’m fine. I’ll be right out.”

John took a moment to wash his face, then dry it. Turn the tap off. Breathe in one more time, collecting himself for what laid ahead.

“You good?” Lestrade was looking him over like a concerned parent. “You sure- John I know I can’t keep you away-”

“No, you can’t.” He rolled his shoulders and looked Lestrade in the eye. “I know. It’s personal. But I also know what you don’t about both James and his home. I know the grounds. I’ve done extractions harder than this.”

“You- mate,” Lestrade gave him a firm stare. “We’ve got to get a pint after this. For now though, here. Mycroft’s taken care of it.”

The backpack was handed to him, as was the vest and webbing. It took him less that five minutes to secure it all properly and holster his new sig after giving it a cursory glance. Next, John went into the pack and pulled out two thin batons and stuck them in the fingerholds in the back of his armour, then pocketed the extra (ammo clips) in their appropriate places.

“Not my first rodeo,” John noted when he caught Greg’s incredulous look. A dark smile resting on John’s lips after the Americanism slipped through them. “Let’s roll.”

“Oh my god, I’m too old for this.” Lestrade grumbled even though he was smiling himself. “We’re going into a crime scene, John-”

“No, we aren’t. This is a hostage situation as far as we know. I refuse to accept anything else.”

“Stubborn bloody bastards! Look you, just because Mycroft’s intel pretty much has given us a green light to storm the damn place, this isn’t a military operation!”

“Try me, _Greg_.” John snarled, and the older man visibly backed down. John gave a sharp nod, and turned to the door.

John hopped into the SUV and waited for a couple of Holmes’ men to catch up, with Lestrade pulling up the rear. He was thankful that he was driving. Would have prefered to have been in the helicopter that had just dusted off, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He didn’t know the men with them, but Holmes had personally vetted. They’d introduced themselves, in the courteous way that most of this sort did, and seemed quite professional. They were quietly discussing the map they had been given and were listening to John’s explanation of how the exterior grounds were laid out.

Holmes had planned for Ms. Morstan’s next message, if there was one, and cloned Sherlock’s mobile to send with John. He would receive any and all messages and could answer, but it would seem as if he were still at Holmes’ residence. They expected a hit there at some point; it was only logical. None of them believed it would be yet, and that they had the upperhand. He had to give it to Holmes. Everything was being run with precision, something that thrilled John deeply. They pulled up to the designated drop and quietly got out, a driver replacing John to move the vehicle into an out of the way place off the road.

“Awaiting your orders, sir.” John smiled at the once familiar sound of that.

There were ten of them minus Lestrade and Holmes. They were to drop Lestrade at the edges of the property so that he could secure the rear of the house with four of the ten with them. John himself would roll off the group that he was with once they got to the grounds and would go immediately for James, with the rest of them going in the front.

What was not common knowledge, was once John got James to his panic room, he was going to book to the guest house. That was the only place onsite that Sherlock could possibly be being held at. The intel that Holmes had received stated that the two women that normally stayed there were both in the main house currently due to the frozen pipes.

They kept to the trees and slipped through into the back portion of the lush acreage, that was now frosty and barren, using the trees to keep them from sight until they could cross close to the quiet barn and outbuilding. From there, John nodded and headed off towards James’ personal courtyard. He hopped the low wall and came up to the glass, his heart in his throat. He prayed that James would recognise the series of taps for what they were.

“You’re getting loud, John. Too long out of the field.” James whispered from behind him as the sig rested comfortably in his hand trained on John. “What do I owe this pleasure?”

“You are in mortal danger, James. Why do you think I’m here... in this kit? A mad tea party? Let’s get you the hell into your safe room.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t- John you have to give me a damn good reason right now not to call the police. You look... this looks bad.”

“Damn it, James.” John kept his voice low. “I’m here with some of them. One of your staff, they are a danger to you and quite a few others. Kidnapped a friend of mine with guardian angels in very high places. I swear on my very life, you know better. Your lungs- I need to get you out of the cold. Please. There are... look, you just have to trust me.”

James’ blue eyes went a bit warmer. “Okay. Alright. I’ll get in there. You know where it is. But you need to explain this all to me.”

John’s comm softly toned in his ear.

_Is_ package Alpha secured?

John looked up at James and slowly stood. “Package Alpha is being moved to storage.”

James’ eyebrows rose nearly up to his hairline. “Get in. Now. Explain while I open the place up.”

“I _really_ do not have the time.” His fingers found the side of James’ face before he could stop himself. “Look, go. Be safe. I have someone else to save.”

“Damn it, Watson.” His lips pressed into a tight line. “Go. But you have a hell of a dressing down coming later.”

“Yes, sir.” So much lost. It hurt to say those words now. “Be safe.”

John turned then; as he heard the click of the double doors he hopped back over the low wall and made his way to the guesthouse to secure it. He hoped to hold Ms. Morstan in until proper transport arrived, as it wouldn’t do to interrogate her there. Maybe the outbuildings if they had to, but John was hopeful that her particular brand of madness liked to shoot off at the mouth.

He silently crept to the back entrance of the two storey cottage and tested the door. It was unlocked. This could either be very good news, laziness, or very, very bad for him indeed. The house _felt_ silent. That was sometimes a good sign, but John wasn’t going to hold his breath. Depressing his comm button twice, he signaled that he was in position. He had heard similar as he had been speaking to James. John hoped that this place would be clear. That it would be easy. In his mind, he knew the chances of that were slim, but nothing to dwell on right now.

As John cleared the small back mudroom and kitchen, he thought he heard some sort of... well something. It sounded small, maybe muffled. There were butler stairs off to the left, at least ten treads stacked with random books, a nightmare to try and clear. At least he’d hear someone on the way down, he thought. He waited at the open arch of the kitchen to see if he could hear  whatever the hell that sound had been again, but nothing. He crept along clearing the three rooms beyond the parlor and the loo that all shared the single hallway.

The damnable noise came again. It was like a mewlingish sort of thing, like a cat in the wall.   _Impossible_ , there was no airing closet beneath the stairs. Just striped paper with vines; there wasn’t a break that he saw. John shook his head and took his time moving up the stairs and clearing the rooms there as well when he swore he heard something again, this time below him.

Christ Almighty. There was _something_ in the house with him, unless the house was haunted. He almost laughed at the absurd thought as he headed back to the ground floor. Going into the first bedroom to the right he stood and listened as he quietly closed the door. It might muffle sound, but it would help him determine the location.

There it was!

John moved to the wall and listened. There was clearly something not just in the room, but _in_ the wall. Terrific. Clicking his mic open twice, he spoke. “Something or someone in house with me. Inside the wall. Going to investigate.”

He went back to silent and ran his nails along the floral paper. There had to be a- _there_! John pulled out his small pocket knife and wiggled it against a seam. Feeling with his fingers, he found the catch, and held his breath as the thin metal depressed. With a little effort, a space between the studs shushed open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Icelandic
> 
> Heiðin
> 
> Köld veröldin veit þér ei af,  
> varla átt þér samastað  
> frið engan í andartak gaf,  
> ekki getur sæst við það
> 
> Biðin þig vel getur borið,  
> býsna langt kjósir þú það  
> en ríst' á lappir er ljúft kemur vorið  
> og létt sólskín rennur í hlað
> 
> Lífið þér bíður ef leitar þú vel  
> leiðina greiða reynd' að sjá  
> veistu það þú verður heimtur úr hel  
> og hjartað mun lifna við þá
> 
>  
> 
> English
> 
> The Heath
> 
> The cold world knows not of you,  
> you barely get shelter  
> gave no peace in a moment,  
> can't reconcile with that
> 
> The waiting can carry you well,  
> rather far if you chose that  
> but get on your feet when the spring comes tenderly  
> and light sunshine runs into the farmyard
> 
> Life waits for you if you look well  
> try to see the clear path  
> you know that you'll be pulled out of hell  
> and your heart must reawaken then


	12. Chapter 12

John allowed his eyes to adjust, his senses on full alert. Why on earth would there be a space like this? Possibly a priest hole? Were the grounds old enough for that sort of thing? His mind helpfully supplied if that were the case that they might not actually know all of the exits of the main house or any possible hiding places therein. Bollocks. Well, where he was was as silent as a tomb so... as the thought ran through John, he flicked on his night vision and adjusted the goggles into place. They were more lightweight than the ones he had used before, but seemed serviceable, even though they weren’t near as rugged.

He was indeed in a small space; almost enough though to be a small bedroom if he were honest. There was a table with one chair, a place for a washing basin and pitcher. What caught his eye was the curtained off area. It was on... well possibly thin brass pipes with metal runners for ease of opening. He could hear some possible shifting now that he was in the room. Quickly he made his way to the heavy thing and yanked it back.

“Oh, God. “ John looked quickly around for a light source. “Damn it, oh, Christ, Sherlock. It’s alright. Just-” It was hard to breathe, the relief constricting his chest. “It’s fine. There are people here... let me get this... damn light-”

The low light flooded the area as John cursed quietly praying the light wasn’t visible from the outside. Sherlock was bound with zip ties at his wrists. He’d made a work of them trying to get out. John prayed he hadn’t tried to dislocate or break anything to get free.

“Siger is on site. I repeat, Siger is on site. GPS my location.” He quickly keyed in and out of the comm as he pulled through the russack. “Ok, I’m going to undo the zip tie. It’s going to hurt. I’m so very sorry.” John pulled out his small knife and cut through the binding plastic while still holding Sherlock’s wrists together. He gently let go as Sherlock groaned. He quickly undid his ankles and then turned back to undo the gag. “It’s alright. Fuck. I swear, Sherlock.”

John was worried as Sherlock was not as responsive as he would like him to be. Damn. He felt his pulse, and was not pleased. Thready. Possibly drugged? Poisoned? John’s mind was racing.

“Sherlock... Sherlock... come on then.” He soothed trying to bring Sherlock around. “Do you know where you are?”

“No, he doesn’t I’m afraid.” The female voice came from behind. John went for his sig as his other hand found the knife he’d dropped on the thin mattress. “No, John. We both know you’ll be dead in seconds if you do. Where will that leave your... whatever he is?”

Too sweet. “Hello, Amelie.” He moved his hand away and placed it on the mattress as well, shielding as much of Sherlock as possible. John kept his voice steady as his body tensed at the thought of what he was about to do. “Long time, darling. Changed your name, your hair... if you’re in trouble still-”

“I’m not in trouble, you are. How dare you!” The butt of the gun met with the back of his head leaving his ears ringing. “You damned bastard! This should have ended ages ago; us. It was _supposed_ to be simple. A cover. Nothing more. But no, we were _stupid_ , weren’t we?” She rolled him to his back with a hard kick. “Name’s Mary now. Amelie died a bit ago, didn’t you hear? Oh, not surprised that you didn’t, especially with your own injured. There had been an insurgent attack... an IED that had been missed. She was with a certain Major and his group of crows. It was supposed to be simple, John, why did it go so wrong?”

John shook his head as he processed what she was saying.”No, no one told me.”

She should know he would have been hours in surgery after that. True, it bled into others, in some respects, but he’d not forgotten any of it. The difference was that he had _known_ some of them. Just enough. John steeled himself against the memories. The woman was mad. She was clearly trying to unbalance him as well. He gripped at the knife that he’d managed to not impale himself with. There would be little time to act. If Mary even moved towards Sherlock- he needed to keep her attention on him.

“Seems like it went about as planned, his life is over.”

“Oh, your Major was just part of the larger picture. Wasn’t him I was referring to, it was us. Too idiotic, drunk on that cheap gin. Do you even remember? I do. Your cock rubbing against my cunt...slick and hard... even with the edges a bit blurry I didn’t. Couldn’t. Would you like to know why?”

“I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me- Christ!”

Mary kicked him hard in his shoulder rolling John onto his stomach; her laugh devoid of all mirth.

“Let’s deal with _that_ right now.” Stepping on the flat of the knife, she took advantage of the blooming pain, and got his hand behind his back and began securing it with a tie to his body armor. “Would you like to know what my CV didn’t have on it, John? Something that I’m sure your team has found by now?” John could hear the coyness in her voice as she yanked his other hand over. He began to twist to get out and away from her; had to get free. “Your little swimmers were quite productive that night. I’ve got a little boy with eyes so blue-”

“You bloody- you know what. No-” John rolled hard then, upsetting them both and wrenching his shoulder worse. “You’d say anything-” He hit her hard, kicking her away from Sherlock and the knife. Her gun was between them. “If you go for it, so help me I _will_ end you.”

“The mother of your child? No, John Watson, you are not so cruel.”

“You mean as cruel as you when you _murdered_ that boy?” John could feel his blood boil. Too long. She was trying to get under his skin, but he knew. “Or his father? I saw, that night. You didn’t come back- oh _my **God**_!” Things came together like a jigsaw; each bit falling into place. “You did it. You set- you fucking- No. _Qù nǐde_!”

“ _Nǐ  dong le ma. Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài_!” Mary spat back. “It was a job. There _is_ no moral high ground in war. Governments begin and end them. I just play the game.” She tilted her body, the sneer evident in her voice. “I was going to let you two go, maybe, at least _him_ -” She nodded in Sherlock’s direction. John’s heart clenched as he realised he wasn’t moving. He was drugged. That was all it was. He had to believe that. “-but now? Oh, darling, I’ve got to end you both.”

John set his mouth in a tight line. “No. Nope. Not going to happen. Not now at any rate.” Chances were high, in Sherlock’s line of work, if John continued this way with him, that one day ‘that’ _could_ indeed be the case, but by God not tonight.

The movement was calculated, the ease in which Mary flicked her right arm like a whip, leveling the gun point blank at Sherlock’s tousled unwashed curls. John blinked, knowing moments like these erupted between one heartbeat and the next. He lunged then, raising a prayer in his shout, that she would miss. That the man he had come to know would still be with him after she was long cold. Mary got the shot off, but the flash was almost blinding in the small dark room. His ears ringing, he did not hear her gun hit the ground a skitter to a halt out of reach, but he felt Mary grasping for it desperately.

John grunted as he wrestled her before he was knocked back hard by her legs. Half words and hard gusts of breath escaping them both. It was a tussle he hadn’t been apart of in years, but he was as alert as if it were the first time, his adrenaline kicking into his system full force as he felt the tip of his knife scuttle under his elbow. If he could get at it; he needed it. As much as the fight was in him, he knew that with his shoulder injured, that fight that was running through his veins might not last as long as he liked.

Tussling hard, Mary kicked him, trying to get away towards the wall and the cot. His hearing had come back to a low ringing and he was certain that she’d pulled a small knife, as he heard a metallic scuff against the floor. Then was surprised to hear her cry out in pain; possibly anger.

“You fucking- you’re supposed to-”

“Still not quite.” The gruffness of Sherlock’s voice had warning bells going off all inside John. He could hear Sherlock moving; prayed that he wasn’t exacerbating anything. “Mary you’ve been _quite_ contrary.”

“Fuck off!” John used that moment to lunge for the gun. “Sherlock, get away, _now_.”

“No, John! Go-” Sherlock sounded resigned, his voice slurring with the simple words.No fucking way. No. Sherlock wasn’t going to take Mary’s wrath, it was meant for John alone. Sherlock was simply caught up in whatever insanity this was due to John in the first place. Fucking pips. Fucking mobile. Vendettas. John could just make out their silhouettes. He hoped he was making them out properly as his heart rate was purposely slowed. It would need to be spot on or he might lose them both.

“Sherlock!” He wished he could see his eyes, brilliant and on fire as John was sure they were, even drugged. “Vatican Cameos!”

John heard the swoop of fabric, felt the slight gust of air, and pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the hardest chapter to write. Roadblocks abounded, but here it is. I think it might have been better polished, but I think that is just fretting because I'd love to give all of you double this word count. I am sorry that RL got in the way for a moment. I hate when that happens. Again, apologies for this being so late. 
> 
> Qù nǐde - Fuck off
> 
> Nǐ dong le ma. Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài - You understand now. Fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation.

**Author's Note:**

> So Many Thanks to RaceBetaing this Sexxica and Type40ConsultingDetective! ILYM!
> 
> **A NOTE ABOUT SAFE SEX AND THIS FIC**
> 
> In the end, John's condom is discarded; this is due to writers prerogative. In this world, John gets tested all of the time, and Sherlock had been tested prior to this within 30 days ...and sent his results to John as part of the 'Getting to Know you survey thing' that Sherlock filled out that the reader did not see because, well I didn't write it in. 
> 
> If you are with a new partner ALWAYS PRACTICE SAFE AND CONSENSUAL/SANE SEX. Condoms, Barriers, discussion... It's sexy. And Practical. And the best thing you could ever do for another human is care about their health and well-being.
> 
> Love and Light~ Diann


End file.
